


All I Want Is Freedom

by letthesongtakeflight



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letthesongtakeflight/pseuds/letthesongtakeflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine returns to Erik the night before her wedding, hoping to gain closure and finally be free of him. Erik realizes that he doesn't have the strength to let her go, and she realizes that if freedom means living without him, she would rather be his prisoner. Set from the events of "Beneath A Moonless Sky" in Love Never Dies, but will not be an alternate LND story.</p><p>This story has been uploaded on fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cloaked Under The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this story in July 2010, in the back of a rental car in England. I never liked how, in Love Never Dies, Erik leaves Christine after the night she goes back to him (Beneath a Moonless Sky). He's gotten everything he wants, so why would he leave her? It never made sense to me, so that's why I wrote this story.
> 
> This story is mainly musical based, in terms of the events that took place in Phantom. There will also be some references to Kay, especially in the details and descriptions. Some Leroux may have slipped in there too.
> 
> The story takes place in 1882. Kay's Phantom sets the story in 1881; in the musical the masquerade is at new year's eve, making it Dec 31st 1881. Hence, everything that happens from that point on, ie the cemetery scene, Don Juan, Christine's leaving with Raoul and so on, takes place in 1882.
> 
> Disclaimer: Obviously I am not dead, so I'm not Gaston Leroux. I'm not Susan Kay either because I WISH that I could write like her. And if I were Andrew Lloyd Webber I wouldn't write something like Love Never Dies (shudders). So no, I don't own Phantom of the Opera. I just wish I did.

_March 1882_

If someone had been outside the de Chagny mansion at two in the morning, under the star-flecked night sky that early March, they would have seen a feminine figure climb out of a window on the ground floor and, hooded, run through the streets of Paris, under the blanket of darkness. Her feet, petite and delicate, yet hardened from years as a ballerina, pounded the cobblestones, encased only by thin flats. She was careful to stick to the shadows. The hood of her black cloak masked her face.

She approached a grand architectural structure in the centre of Paris. A thousand memories flashed through her mind – when she first arrived here as a child of ten; all the times she had strolled through the front doors; the joy of singing her heart and soul out on stage; the roar of the audience's applause; the night she fled from here like a bird from a burning forest.

And him. His presence was acute in every memory. The gentle voice that comforted her; the strict tutor commanding her to sing; the musical genius that enchanted her; the disfigured demon that terrified her. But behind all of those were the same man – her Angel of Music.

Christine Daae passed by the main entrance of the silent building. Instead she rounded by its perimeter, making her way along the Rue Scribe. She carefully searched for the secret entrance, from which she had exited that night of Don Juan. The doorway was in plain sight, but was so mundane and inconspicuous that if she had not been looking for it, she would have simply dismissed it without a second's thought. Fleetingly, she worried that the entrance would be blocked, but no; it opened. Christine slipped into the dark tunnel, removing her hood. She couldn't see anything, and fervently prayed in her heart that she would not be caught in any of the deadly traps in the passage. With her hand on the rough wall as her guide, she descended down once more into the bowels of the opera house.

She didn't remember the tunnel to be so long. The darkness stretched infinitely before her and she feared more than once that she had lost her way. But the ground beneath her sloped steadily down, and she kept faith that her angel was still in the opera house. There would be no other way for her to find him; she could not afford to lose hope. And so she persisted, blindly hoping that she would eventually reach the house on the lake. Her efforts and faith proved to be worthwhile, for she finally she reached a familiar waterway, with a boat still tied to the dock.

Hope flared once again in her chest at the sight. She rowed across the lake and without fail, saw the house on the lake, only a small distance away from the dock. The front door was ajar; her heart fluttered in terror at its implications. The drawing room was illuminated only by a single, dying candle. By its weak light she could see that it was completely wrecked.

Shattered pieces were strewn across the ground. Glass, cloth, porcelain, metal, wood. She could barely recognize the once familiar room. Among the debris on the ground were torn pieces of paper, sporting the remainders of hand-written notes. She could not imagine how it must have pained him to have his work ruined by the mob.

 _Not as much as when you left him_ , she reminded herself, feeling her heart give a painful twist at the accusation that she knew was so true. How much of this damage was done by the mob, and how much by his own hand? Had he lashed out blindly in his rage, after she abandoned him to the solitude that had plagued him his whole life?

A breeze flickered through the room, blowing out the single candle that lit it.

"Of all the people I expected." his voice: so clear, so close. The tenor was as irresistible as she remembered it, harmonious and resonating in the rich timbre. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart leaped with a strange mix of pain and endless longing that she herself could not explain. "Angel?"

"I am no longer your angel." he spat with contempt. "I thought that we made that clear. I am not the Angel of Music, and you are not the gullible little Christine Daae to whom I fed those lies."

Why did she come here? She had not hoped beyond finding him; actually confronting him was more than she had expected. His presence was intimidating. Her mind was blank; she couldn't remember why she wanted to come. _To make peace_. The single thought rose groggily to the surface of her numbed brain. _To say goodbye_. If she didn't end this, she would never get another chance to bring closure to this chapter of her life. This angel and demon would constantly be in her mind, forever haunting her. She had to make one last attempt at farewell. It was the only way she would be free.

She hesitantly took a step towards the general direction of his voice. He was so close; his presence was overwhelming. "Please." She took a shaky breath. "I came to say goodbye."

He laughed – a harsh sound, void of humor. She inhaled sharply; this side of her Angel scared her. This was when he was no longer her Angel, but the terrifying Phantom "So that's why you came. I should have known better, _Viscomtesse_."

"I am no Viscomtesse." she shot back defiantly. "At least," she added in a small voice that more closely mirrored her uncertainty and nervousness. "Not until tomorrow." She took another step, and heard him draw a sudden breath. She was so close that she could feel the faint warmth of his body, feel his breath on her face, smell his husky scent. "Please; I want us to part on better terms."

"Why? Don't you hate me?" he choked bitterly. "I'm a monster, Christine."

"You're the man that tutored me, you gave me everything." she could reach out and touch him, if she wanted, but she was afraid that the contact would drive him back. And so she proceeded with care, as one would a wild animal. "You were once my everything, and even now… I can't deny that you are important to me."

"Don't torture me this way; don't give me this false hope, only to take it back." he snarled. If he spoke in any other way, his voice would waver and he would have no choice but to take Christine in his arms and never relent his hold on her again. He could not give in; could not harm her any more. He would gladly take another hundred stabs to his already mutilated heart, if it could spare her perfect one from being so much as bruised.

"I'm sorry." her voice shook as she suppressed the urge to cry. Her presence withdrew from his side as she moved towards the doorway. "I shouldn't have come, it was foolish of me." Fiercely blinking to stop the tears – in vain – she turned away. "Goodbye, my Angel,"

"Erik."

She froze. "What?"

"My name. Erik Destler."

A small smile crept onto her face despite herself. "Erik." she took small steps back towards his side, fearing his reaction. "My Angel has a name. Erik." once again, she was close enough to reach out and touch him. And this time, she tentatively slipped her arms around him.

He was stiff under her embrace. Forget his torture chamber with its mirrored walls to drive a man insane; this was a far worse agony. He could almost imagine a life with her – she would hug him this way when she returned home every day, he would kiss her hair, and then her lips… He forced himself back to the present. That life would never exist. Thinking about it would only make the pain of the loss sharper, crueler.

As she raised her head, her forehead brushed his chin. Before he could move, her mouth had, in the darkness, collided with his. There was a long, painful moment when they were both motionless, shocked into stillness. The next instant, their mouths were crashing against each other's with ferocity, their kisses growing heated, lips locked in a dance that was older than civilization, as ancient as mankind itself. There was no tomorrow, no charming Viscomte, no imminent wedding. There was only now, this night beneath a moonless sky, where nothing mattered except for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review and let me know if you like it :]


	2. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Thank you to every single one of you who have given any time and attention to this story. It is flattering to know that there are people who enjoy reading this story. Every Tuesday I'll be posting a new chapter, so I can keep updating this story.
> 
> A reviewer has asked me to put smut in this story. I don't know how many of you I will be disappointing, but I have no intention of changing the rating of this story to M. There are several reasons for this, the main one being that I don't see any particular reason to do so. I don't like putting in smut, or extremely gory scenes, or really anything that can bump the rating up to M, just for the sake of writing it (that being said, if there is a good reason to include that, I will).
> 
> Once again, this story is mostly musical based. Anything from before the start of the musical is a mixture of my own imagination and Kay, possibly with a sprinkle of Leroux.
> 
> Disclaimer: As much as I want to own Phantom and especially Erik, I don't. Anything recognizable belongs to ALW, Kay or Leroux.

_March 1882_

A couple lay asleep, tangled in each other's naked embrace. Sunlight was pouring in through a crack in the roof, highlighting her creamy, flawless skin. In comparison, his too-pale complexion seemed ghostly. Half of his face was hideously scarred. In some places the skin stretched too tight. In others, it wrinkled and folded into a grotesque texture. His cheek was sunken, giving the face a skeleton-like quality. 

Erik's eyes snapped open. They were an unearthly gold, almost cat-like with the light that gleamed from them. He knew with terrible clarity that last night was a mistake; he had to leave to undo it. He couldn't submit Christine to a life with him – a life filled with danger and darkness, with a man who could neither protect her nor provide for her. The darkness would taint and smother her. As a being of light, she belonged in the world above ground, not hidden in the shadows. He had no place at her side, not as the monster he was doomed to be from birth.

When Christine woke, the first thing her eyes settled upon was the mangled flesh of her lover’s face. She lovingly caressed the gruesome cheek with her fingertips. The most adoring and tender of smiles was upon her perfect lips as she allowed her fingers to explore the terrain of his deformity. Her blue-grey eyes were aglow with the gentle warmth of a lover, a lover who found this monster beautiful, who saw beauty where even a mother could not.

He was startled by the sensation of the tender touch on his deformity. He had never known any touch but a cruel one. Was Christine honestly stroking his face? How could she lay her eyes on it, much less touch it of her own free will?

"Morning." she whispered in her soprano tones, smiling at him with kiss-swollen lips. And with that one word, that one kind gesture, he realized that he could never let her leave. He didn't have the strength to do so. Giving her freedom would crush his soul and take away his life. No, he could not leave her. He may have brought her to doom along with himself, but he could not let her go again. Whatever resolve he previously possessed shattered like a mirror, broken into so many fragments that the reflection distorted, so much that his reflection would be no different from a normal man's. 

His Christine had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes shone with the soft glow of – could it truly be? – love. The light illuminated her flawless skin, highlighted all the colors and shades of her hair. Chocolate brown, with a touch of mahogany here and a stroke of chestnut there. She was a creature straight from heaven.

Her beauty reminded him of his own hideous appearance, and he reached for the mask that lay on his bedside table.

"Erik, no." she addressed him by the name he had revealed to her the night before, gripping his wrist. There had never been a more beautiful sound in the world than the sound of his name on her lips. "I thought I proved to you last night that I don't care what you look like." she cupped his scarred cheek with fondness. He jerked away, uncomfortable with physical contact on his imperfect face. Hurt flooded suddenly and completely into her youthful face, and he put his hand above hers in a shy gesture of comfort. He marvelled at how her much smaller hand fit perfectly into his palm.

 

"Last night…" he breathed in wonder. For once, he failed to find the words to tell her how he felt – the sheer joy of their reunion; the intense passion as they made love; the disbelief that she was here of her own free will.

She nodded, a blush heating her cheeks. “If you doubt me, I want you to know that I meant every word I said. I love you, Erik.” Her face was open and vulnerable as she bared her soul to him. Any doubts he had about her feelings evaporated like dew in the morning. Christine was an actress, and a good one at that. But no amount of practice or skill could deliver this sincerity, this display of emotion from her soul.

He wrapped his arms around her tiny frame, pressing his face into her hair. How could he have dreamed of leaving her? That night in his lair, he thought that the ultimate act of love was to set her free. But now, he found that he loved her too much to let her slip through his fingers one more time. He could not stop himself from confessing in a murmur: "This morning, before you woke… I almost left."

Her heart stopped. "What?" her whisper was fearful as she clung to him fiercely. She enveloped his warm, bare body in the cocoon of her arms, as though she was physically strong enough to keep him from leaving her. "Why? I thought you wanted this… that you wanted me."

"I do, my angel, I do." he said with conviction. "Never think that I will stop loving or wanting you. But a life with me would be dangerous, uncertain," he sighed heavily. His beautiful feline eyes pooled with remorse. "And you would have to face this repulsive carcass of a man everyday for the rest of your life. I cannot condemn you to this. You're too beautiful, too good, too pure, to be punished like that."

"It is the life I choose." she declared with fierce passion. "A life without you would be unimaginable, I wouldn't want it. I can’t live without you, just like I can’t live without music. I love you; anywhere you go, let me go too!"

She surprised him with the fire of her words. Where was the meek, uncertain child she had been, up to a month ago? The girl who had fretted between suitors, uncertain of her heart, was now a woman who was sure of what she wants and was ready to fight for it. She had been granted freedom, but now she was throwing it away with both hands when she realized that that freedom was yet another captivity, one that deprived her of music and of her angel. In that moment, he didn't have the words to express his realization. “I love you," he caressed her cheek with a tenderness that only she has seen.

"I love you too," she said simply with a small smile. Erik had never been more content than in that moment. With Christine's small body nestled against his, her arms rested around him, her cool breath batted against his bare chest, he felt that he would never want anything ever again. "And I'm terribly sorry for what I did. I had no right to leave you that way. No; the first fault I committed was pulling your mask away." she traced her fingers along the lines of his deformity. Erik fought the instinct to shy away from her touch; she was not like the rest of the world, who would punish him for the birth defect. She had proved it and he should return that by placing his trust in her. "I'm sorry for what I did then. The mask was your privacy and I pulled it away like an ignorant child. And I'm sorry for everything that followed: for abruptly fleeing to Raoul and abandoning you. I was waiting and waiting for you to come to me, for I lacked the courage to approach you! I'm sorry for playing a role in his plan to capture you – please know that I didn't mean to have any part in that!"

"I know, my dear." he comforted her desperate plea. "I was watching."

"You were?" comfort gleamed in her eyes for a moment, before she continued: "But most of all, I am sorry for that night." He knew without asking that she was referring to the night of Don Juan. "I'm sorry for unmasking you once again, in front of…" guilt and self-reproach dominated her face, and she continued in a whisper: "In front of the world. I don't know what drove me to do that. It seemed the only thing to do at the moment. My heart was closed; I couldn't accept your love. I was scared of the intensity and the flame of your love.

"And finally, when you brought me down here, and I had to make that choice. I chose you. For saving Raoul's life, or for saving yours, I don't know. When you sent me away, offered my freedom at no price, I shouldn't have accepted it. I should have honored the agreement." Tears rolled down her perfect cheeks, leaving behind salty stains. "I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry that I have given you so much less than you deserve."

Erik was dumbstruck. No one had ever apologized to him. No one had ever shed tears for him. No one had ever told him that he deserved more. No one had ever felt remorse for their actions to him. "Shh, Christine…" awkwardly, he attempted to soothe her. "Please, don't cry." he murmured. "You don't owe me anything, least of all an apology. Of all the people I have met, you are one of the extreme few that were not cruel to me."

"You only say so because your love blinds you." she insisted. "I have been wretched."

"Perhaps." he agreed. "But what you did was a great mercy compared to everything else I have experienced."

She blinked those doe-like eyes at him. "Was it?" she questioned innocently.

"Last night; and this," he gestured at their entangled bodies. "Is enough to make up for everything you have done. Every pain you caused has been erased." her only response was to press ever closer to him, as though to convince both of them that she would offer everything she had to make atone for her wrongs.

Christine's stomach chose that moment to complain. She giggled, a blush colouring her cheeks, and he chuckled at her embarrassment. "I'd better make you breakfast – I won't have you starving." he unwillingly untangled himself from her arms and rose. Her eyebrows creased in the center as she clambered into a sitting position. The sheets pooled around her, loosely hiding her form. She suddenly looked so small and vulnerable, lonely in his huge bed. 

"Please, don't leave…"

He would have happily given in to her command, but reason spoke otherwise. "Your wedding is in two hours; I'm sure they'll have noticed by now that you're gone." he picked up his discarded clothing from the floor and put them on. "Your fop will come looking for me, the monster that kidnapped his bride." he sneered. His eyes lit up with a cold, cruel light. Like an Angel of Death. 

"I'm not marrying Raoul today." she declared proudly, tossing back her mane of wild curls. She was fierce, her words burning with heat, matching his freezing rays.

Erik bent and framed her delicate face with long, musician's fingers. The frightening angel disappeared, replaced by a tender lover. "My angel, they will force you." He whispered. His unearthly eyes shone with the fear of losing her. 

"Then we run." she kissed him deeply, with a clear reminder of last night's ardor. His fingers tangled into her hair, into those beloved chestnut curls. They broke the kiss with their chests heaving for air, love and lust glowing with equal brightness in their eyes and their parted lips.

Awkwardly, Erik moved away from her. "I'll have breakfast ready in a moment." he mumbled.

"Thank you." she smiled and watched his retreating back leave the room, closing the door behind him. She was grateful to him, for giving her this privacy. She was his woman now, he could watch her get dressed if he wanted to, but he chose to respect her privacy. Everything Erik did was showing her that he was a sweet, gentle, caring man. Yes, she knew that he wouldn't always be like this; after all this was the former Opera Ghost who terrorized and blackmailed the managers and cast. But she loved him. He had never been loved before, not even by his mother. She wanted to know about his childhood, about the years of solitude and wandering, even about the hellish torment that created the Erik today.

Undeniably, she had been a selfish, shallow girl. She had caused Erik the intense pain that can only come from a broken heart. And he had forgiven her all too easily; much more easily than she deserved. Her own forgiveness of her actions, on the other hand, was quite a different matter. She promised herself that she would make amends. She would show Erik the love that he had been deprived of. She would show him that he would no longer be alone. She did not forget that he was the frightening Opera Ghost; but at the same time he was an angel. She had faith that, given the chance, her angel would flourish and be free of the chains of darkness that had bound him his whole life.


	3. One Love, One Lifetime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Once again, I don't own anything recognizable from ALW, Kay or Leroux.

_March 1882_

Erik's home was of an irregular shape. The cellars under the Opera Garnier were crooked and uneven, so Erik had been forced to build his house according to the space available to him. But like any great architect, or, indeed, any ingenious artist, his greatest works were born from a restriction. The two largest caverns were occupied by the music room, the drawing room and Erik's laboratory, where he conducted experiments and built contraptions. These rooms were guarded by the black, impassible waters of the lake. They were also the ones that, on the night the mob came, were destroyed completely.

A narrow corridor from the living room led to a second, smaller cavern, which contained several smaller rooms, those essential for maintaining a life. The kitchen, though Erik ate infrequently, was necessary for survival. Then two bedrooms; Erik's and Christine's. Each room had its own separate bathroom, supplied with water from the lake. Erik had engineered a device that could keep water heated in a tank in an adjoining chamber, so warm water was available at the turn of a tap. These rooms were the keep of Erik's castle, so to speak – the most well protected area. There were only two entrances to this smaller cavern. One of these was the hidden entrance to the hallway. From the outer rooms, this entrance was perceived to be a wall. Only by triggering a contraption would the wall open, much like the mirror in Christine's old dressing room. The second and final entrance was through the torture chamber, which activated automatically once a victim unknowingly enters.

Therefore, the essential part of Erik's home had remained untouched after the mob's attack two months ago. It had also been undiscovered by the multiple parties that had ventured under the opera house in search of the disappeared Ghost. Unbeknownst to them, Erik had stayed in his home, a mere disguised wall away. Everything he needed to maintain his existence was stocked in his living quarters. Rightly confident as he was in his abilities to remain hidden, he saw no need to leave his home.

Trying to avoid any large movements, Christine made her way to the kitchen, now fully dressed. Through the half closed door, she could see Erik's back as he busied over the stove. The table was set for one, with elegant white china. There was a dish of delicious looking croissants, making her mouth water. 

"Aren't you eating with me?" She called, opening the door. A pot of tea in hand, Erik turned around to face her. To her dismay, it was not her lover’s scarred face that greeted her, but the impassive white mask. Its gleaming porcelain surface mocked her, reminding her that Erik was not comfortable enough to be himself with her. Not even after their night together, not even after her confession of love. He still felt the need to hide himself from her. She tried to push away her disappointment; after all, Erik had spent the majority of his life condemned by the unfortunate deformity on his face. His insecurity and self-consciousness were built up over a lifetime; she could hardly expect that to be revoked overnight.

Erik set the pot of tea on the table and turned to smile at her. Ever the gentleman, he pulled moved around the table to her chair out for her. She quickened her steps to join him. But pain shot through her core and she winced.

"What is it?" he rushed to her side at once. His hand hovered at her arm in concern, but was hesitant to initiate contact.

"I'm fine," she reassured him. "Just... sore." She grimaced at the word. Their activities last night had been her first time, and there was a dull ache between her legs.

"Forgive me." he mumbled, the apology falling awkwardly from his lips. His eyes were troubled as he struggled with self-loathing and remorse.

"It was not your fault." she spaced each word out, speaking them with clarity. Her blue-grey eyes widened persuasively as they held his gaze. "I made the first move, I sought you out, I wanted it as much as you did." she took his hand and brought it to her lips, bestowing a soft kiss upon the back of his skeletal hand. "Oh, and Erik?" his eyes attentively met hers, patiently waiting for what she had to say. "You were unbelievably, unexpectedly, gentle last night." she looked up at him shyly from beneath her lashes, her pale cheeks flushing a gorgeous pink. She stroked his mask with the tips of her fingers. Her smile turned into a frown as she touched its hard, cold surface. "I thought I told you that you don't have to wear this with me,"

"The mask is for my own comfort." he replied sharply. "How would you feel about walking around stark naked?"

Something sparked in her eyes for a second at his harsh tone. Fear, mixed with surprise. It was immediately replaced with guilt at mentioning this sensitive subject. He sighed, regretting already that he snapped at her. "Christine, just because you don't care what I look like doesn't mean that I don't care." he said brusquely. "I don't want to subject anyone to the torture of looking at my face, least of all you, who should never have to set your eyes on anything less than perfect."

She rolled her eyes. "You _do_ know that you judge yourself too harshly."

"The mask stays on." he was firm. 

"You're impossible." she glared at him. "I bet that the table is set for one, only because you can't eat with the mask on." she challenged, in hopes – admittedly childish ones – that he would be provoked to remove the mask. His silence confirmed her suspicion, that eating with the mask on was uncomfortable. "So take that blasted mask off and eat! You've never let me skip any meals, even when I was fifteen and dieting to stay slim. And now you are not eating your breakfast because you don't want me to see you unmasked; it's no wonder you're all skin and bones! I think that last night is more than sufficient to prove that I don't care what you look like." Erik sighed in defeat, grumbling incoherently about her stubbornness, but fetched another set of eating utensils from one of the cabinets. 

Christine had never tasted Erik’s cooking before. The pastry was good, much better than the food at the opera house. She bit hungrily into the croissant. "I didn't realize you could cook." she said, then immediately regretted it. She felt like slapping herself for being so stupid – of course he could cook! He had fed himself for most of his life, hadn't he? And it was obvious that he didn’t eat rats raw, contrary to the popular belief of half the ballet girls. As for the quality of the food, she realized that she shouldn't be surprised, as her lover made everything into an art. Just as he had mastered music and architecture, he had mastered cooking.

"If I couldn't, I would have starved to death years ago." Erik replied sharply.

She didn't flinch at all. Instead she met his eyes, undaunted. He had to admit – albeit grudgingly – that he was impressed by this newfound courage. "In that case I'm glad you learned to cook." she said evenly. "If you had starved to death, I wouldn't have met you,"

Erik nodded once, a barely noticeable dip and rise of his head. He wondered when and why she had stopped being afraid of him. He wasn't sure whether he welcomed this change or not. Although he had always wanted Christine to be a strong, independent woman, it was slightly unsettling to see someone completely unafraid of him. It put him out of control, and the sensation of losing control was foreign to a man like him. On the other hand, the experience was not altogether unpleasant. It was comforting to know that he didn't still inspire fear in her.

Christine didn't know how to react to Erik's silence, so she chose to dig into the food. Last night's activities had made her hungry, and she didn't eat enough at the de Chagny mansion. Raoul's family didn't approve of her, and therefore always gave her a hard time during a meal. His sister Laure-Marie, in particular, was outspoken in her disdain for the former chorus girl. She made little attempt to conceal her snide comments. Even in Raoul's presence she would jab at Christine with veiled insults. Comte Philippe, Raoul's brother, was a little more civil in his treatment of his brother's fiancée. To Christine's face, at least, he would treat her with distant courtesy. But she knew that, in private, he had voiced his disagreement with Raoul over his choice of a bride. Christine found it strange that she was more comfortable in the presence of a disfigured man, in the deepest cellars of an opera house, than with her fiancé and his family, in one of the most beautiful mansions of the city. 

"It's strange." she remarked lightly. "I've known you for so long, that despite all that had happened between us these past months, I still feel so comfortable in your presence."

She caught him off guard with her frankness. "What about that fop of yours? Don't you feel comfortable with him?"

She pondered for a moment. "I'm fond of him." she admitted. "But with him, I don't feel truly... happy." her eyes met his with a torn expression. "It's like I'm forcing myself to smile and be in love with him. It's too much of an effort. It's not that I don't like him; I do." she amended quickly. “But only because I've known him as a child. Other than that, we were only holding on to a stupid, childish dream. I went to him because..." her lighthearted expression grew into a more somber one as she searched within herself for the answer. "When I learned that my Angel and the Phantom were the same man, I was scared." she confessed, wide-eyed. "I was in denial. I couldn't merge my images of them, so I went to someone... safe. Familiar."

Erik's tone was bitter. "What about your childhood dream? Don't you still want Prince Charming to come sweeping in to rescue you from the monster?" he self-consciously covered the deformed half of his face with his hand.

She reached out to take his hand, uncovering his face. "I don't want Prince Charming. I've waited for the Angel of Music. I want Erik."

His grateful smile was a loud enough answer, so he remained silent. Christine returned the smile with a demure one of her own and turned her concentration back on her croissant. They ate in silence for a while, enjoying each other's silent company, the way they had for the past decade. She had always sensed his presence during her time in the opera house, whether it was in her dressing room, the hallways, or during rehearsals. It made her feel safe, and the silence they kept was a comfortable one. And although neither voiced it, both were glad that in the turmoil of these past months, at least that aspect of their relationship hadn't changed.

"By the way," when Erik spoke again, his voice was casual and back to his usual aloofness. “I have something for you.” He calmly rose and placed dirty tableware in the sink. Then he replaced the mask on his face, unwilling to let Christine see him unmasked for any longer than necessary. Christine looked at him expectantly, finishing her croissant off. Erik held up a long, musical finger, a clear indication to wait a moment, and disappeared through the doorway that led to the bedroom. He was back a minute later, holding a small box. "A belated happy birthday." the warmth in his expression was real and tangible. Her twentieth birthday had been two weeks ago; it was the first birthday in nine years that she had not celebrated with him.

Her face split into a delighted grin. "You remembered!" she sounded like a child who received a toy-shop on Christmas day. The newly gained maturity slipped away for a moment, and she looked ten instead of twenty. 

Erik knelt down in front of her chair to look her in the eye. He slowly opened the box. It contained a ring, crafted with utmost care. The silver band was smooth, fashioned into the shape of a vine with the most delicate leaves. Its end twisted into an exquisite rose, with life-like petals that furled outwards in full bloom. Sitting in the centre of the bud was a diamond.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime,” Erik repeated the words he had sung after their duet of _The Point of No Return_. “Lead me, save me from my solitude / Say you want me with you here beside you / Anywhere you go let me go too / Christine, that's all I ask of you."

She drew in her breath sharply, tears gathering in the expressive depths of her grey eyes. "Yes." she nodded, tears falling like the spring rain. "Yes. A thousand times over, my love." her sight blurred with the droplets that slipped down her cheeks. Erik cupped her jaw, and tentatively, tenderly, he kissed her. A single, lingering, loving kiss. Chaste and sweet; adoring and amorous. He tasted her tears, salty on his tongue. 

Unbidden, fresh tears fell down her cheeks. "Erik, I love you."

His voice choked in his throat. _She loved him... She could lucidly, earnestly, **genuinely** profess that she loved him_. "And I love you, my sweet, sweet Angel."

"It's the most beautiful, most perfect, most precious gift I've ever received." She held his face between her palms. "It's a promise that I will have you."

His replying smile was wry. "I've always been yours, whether you knew it or not."

There was something else at the back of his mind, irritatingly pricking his curiosity. He knew that he shouldn't ask; the answer probably wasn't something that he would like, not that it mattered now. But, as always, his inherent inquisitiveness won over, and he asked the question. "What did the fop give you?" the seething jealousy he felt was carefully masked with nonchalance.

“You saw the ring he gave me,” she said, thinking he referred to her first engagement ring. “You even took it from around my neck, don’t you remember?” 

“No, I’m not referring to the hideous ring.” he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I meant for your birthday.”

She looked up in surprise at his question. She had not expected him to touch on this subject. Why did he want to know what his rival was giving her? Did he honestly think that there was something Raoul could give her that was better than the promise of marriage to the right man?

"Expensive jewelry." she answered the seemingly innocent question with honesty. "Stunning diamonds, heavy rubies, elaborate gold ornaments; the likes of that." her lips flitted into a rueful half smile. "Not my taste. Too extravagant, too gaudy… with no thought in it at all."

"And he claims to love you?" Erik's forehead crinkled in his incredulity, anger concealed once again, like calm waters over a raging storm. How dare that boy treat Christine like she was some mere girl who wanted nothing more than to be rich and show off her wealth! Did he not recognize that Christine loved simplicity? That she cared more for the thought behind the gift than its price? How could that fop take a rare, beautiful songbird and treat it like it was some peacock – all extravagance and arrogance, with no talent or humility! Had he truly thought that Christine was superficial like the women who ran in his social circles?

She scoffed. "Like I said, I was vain and childish." she gave a contended sigh, twirling the ring around her finger. "No, he never gave me anything like this." Erik nodded, satisfied with her explanation. "And I don't mean the ring," she added. "He's never given me a sense that we belonged together. I never felt that I owned him, or his heart. So thank you – for the reassurance that you are mine as much as I am yours." whether he believed her or not, she would prove to him that she was, indeed, his forever.


	4. Leave It Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Here is where I state in some creative way, that I do not own anything recognizable. I wish I were Kay or Leroux or ALW, but alas, I am only a Phan, which is why I am posting this story on Archive of Our Own

_March 1882_

"What the hell do you mean, she's not there?" Raoul de Chagny demanded. "Where could she have gone?" His face was contorted in fury. His blue eyes were sharp and dangerous as lightning, pinning the maid to the spot.

"I – I don't know, sir," The maid squeaked. She trembled with fright under the direct rage of her master. At seventeen, she had only just started serving the de Chagnys. The disappearance of the Vicomte's bride was not her fault! The previous night she had helped the Vicomtesse-to-be change into her sleeping attire, listened to her ramble on about her pre-wedding nerves (completely normal for a bride, wasn't it?), seen her into bed and turned the lights out. Yet her young master held her in his gaze as though she were to blame.

"Perhaps she had run away," Raoul's sister, Laure-Marie du Bois, said in an undertone. She was very open in her disapproval for her brother's choice of bride. After all, what was Christine Daae but a menial dancer who had set her eyes on her baby brother's fortune? To the Baroness du Bois, all those dancing girls were the same – common, filthy whores who had bedded half the men they laid their eyes on! Rich, young, handsome, boys like Raoul were exactly the kind they liked preying on.

Raoul rounded on his Laure-Marie. "She did not – how  _dare_  you suggest something like that?! As if Christine had no intention of ever marrying me! Keep your thoughts to yourself, Laure-Marie."

Laure-Marie muttered under her breath. "No need to lose your temper, little brother. I was merely making a suggestion."

Raoul turned to his brother, his eldest sibling, for support. "It must have been  _him_  – that monster! That freak stole Christine in the dead of the night – he must have!"

"Raoul," Comte Philippe de Chagny spoke calmly. His face, though much like his brother's in structure, was lined with age and experience. His expression was unreadable and Raoul watched him with frantic eyes. Philippe placed a restraining hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "Give word for the gendarmes to be on alert. Find Christine at all costs."

"Thank you." Raoul nodded gratefully. Laure-Marie huffed in annoyance as their eldest brother, the patriarch of the family, backed Raoul up. "Every gendarme will be on the streets today." He continued in determination. "They will receive orders to be on the lookout for either Christine or a masked man. Search everywhere – in every abandoned or empty building, in underground chambers, look for secret entrances. Go through the city with a fine-toothed comb if they must. I will hunt that demon down and kill him!" He seethed. "I  _will not_  be made a fool of!"

* * *

Erik pulled the hood carefully over his face, concealing his white mask. With all the tricks he had taught himself throughout his lifetime of wandering, he wove through the streets of Paris, so unnoticed that he might as well have been invisible. Not one of the many passerby so much as glanced at him for more than a moment, immediately dismissing him as another mundane man walking home from his workplace.

The truth could not have been more different. He was out surveying the area. How many gendarmes were in the streets searching for Christine Daae? Were there guards positioned around the roads leading out of the city? Just how many people were aware of the would-be Viscomtesse's sudden disappearance?

The headlines on every newspaper were the Viscomte de Chagny's wedding today. Many papers contained mostly far-fetched truths, from the ridiculous claims about the full cost of the wedding (there was no way the de Chagnys had that much money. Thanks to the Comte's gambling habit, the family's fortune was dwindling rather quickly) to the absurd rumor that the young soprano was pregnant with her fiancé's child (As though Christine was a whore, sleeping around with every rich and handsome man there was! Erik made a gargantuan effort to exercise his self-control in order to stop himself from ripping the paper into shreds).

But overall, the result of Erik's excursion pleased him. There were not many men positioned along the roads; he guessed that the fop had all of his men out searching high and low, instead of stationing them along the perimeters of the city. The roads out of Paris, especially the less travelled ones, were clear.

Satisfied with what he discovered, Erik made his way back to the Rue Scribe entrance, unnoticed.

* * *

Christine fastened her cloak, which she wore when she sought Erik out last night, over her shoulders. Had it only been last night when she tossed and turned in her huge bed in the de Chagny mansion hours after midnight, worrying over the loose threads she left behind her? Had it only been last night when she had dined with Raoul, giving her best attempt at not showing how injured she was by his sister's jeers and his brother's pointed comments? Had it only been last night that she realized she could not begin afresh without making amends with Erik? And had it been the same night when she slept soundly in Erik's arms? She cleared her head; there would be time for these reflections later. Erik wanted to leave his home as soon as possible. He feared Raoul's men would search there, looking for the monster that "kidnapped" the Viscomte's beautiful bride on her wedding day. They were to leave just before nightfall and make for a small house Erik owned just outside the city.

The door opened and Christine jumped. What if it was Raoul's men, bursting in to "rescue" her? The intruder was none other than her lover; she sighed in relief, a hand over her chest. "Calm down, woman!" Erik growled.

"Sorry," she shuffled her feet nervously. "Just jumpy, is all. I'd feel better once we're away from the city,"

His yellow eyes softened and he squeezed her hand gently, running his thumb over her ring. "So would I," he confessed. "But while there are many gendarmes searching for you, the road out of town should be clear. If we leave now we can reach the house before midnight." he explained in a businesslike tone.

She nodded wordlessly and held him close. She breathed in his musky scent, praying fervently in her mind that their journey out of the city would be uneventful. If anyone recognized her, or, even worse, recognized Erik... she dared not think of the consequences.

Noting her silence, his voice turned tender. "Christine?" with the gentle crook of his finger under her chin, he lifted her troubled gaze to meet his. He had misinterpreted her silence. "It's not too late to return to your Vicomte. I cannot force you to leave with me. I can't help what I am." ashamed, he turned his face away from her.

"No!" she threw her arms around his neck. "Don't think for a moment, Erik Destler, that you can get rid of me that easily." she announced, her chin set in a stubborn manner.

His strong arms were around her waist, crossed behind her back. His hands gripped her shoulder blades. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and her soft skin muffled his words. "I would have it no other way." he took a deep breath against her skin before loosening his fierce embrace. "Now, let us begin the journey of the rest of our lives."

They saddled up Iago, Erik's black stallion. In the saddlebags was food for the night. When Christine voiced her concerns about food, clothing and other essentials, Erik reassured her that he had those things in his house that they were going to. Adamant, Christine made him bring his remaining compositions along with him; she couldn't bear the thought of him leaving his music behind. "But you have the composer with you; why would you need the compositions?" he tried reasoning.

"They are your masterpieces, Erik." she insisted. Sighing in defeat, he tucked the hand-written sheet music in his satchel.

Erik helped Christine onto the horse, before he swung onto Iago with practiced ease. He held the reins, his arms on either side of her, so that her back pressed against his chest.

The journey through the city was strangely uneventful. It seemed almost  _too_ easy. It was hard to believe that Fate would let them leave peacefully without a struggle. Iago's hooves clattered on the cobblestone roads, eerily loud amidst the other noises in the city. The pair rode through the streets of Paris unnoticed. Both had their hoods pulled up, and looked as ordinary and inconspicuous as any couple looking for some moonlit romance outside the city. An old man shook his head at them almost forlornly, as though reminiscing the days when he and his loved one had snuck out of the city at night.

Christine began to feel the tendrils of melancholy creeping up to her. There was the cafe where she and Meg used to visit when they were free from practice and spend those summer afternoons of rare freedom over a cool drink, giggling about the handsome young men in the cast. And there was the jewelry store where she had paused every time she passed it, just to admire those sapphire earrings that cost a fortune. The same earrings had appeared magically in her room her following birthday, a gift from her Angel. She smiled at the fond memory; even when she was only fourteen, he had been rewarding her with presents. And the street where she lived with her father when they'd first come to Paris was just a block down from this boulevard.

Paris had been her home for the past ten years, and she had not yet completely come to terms with the idea that she will never come back here again. She felt the unfamiliar grip of sadness consume her. Leaving this beautiful city was somehow unreal. If she pinched herself hard enough, maybe she would return to reality.

But then again, the whole Angel of Music story between herself and Erik was surreal. Almost as though it was a dream, one that she needed to wake up from. But this – the rocking motion of the horse under her, the feeling of her lover's arms, his chest pressed against her back – this was real. Her fairy-tale ending, the happily ever after with Raoul was merely a fantasy, the product of her girlhood daydreams.

In the quickly diminishing light of dusk, the silhouette of a solitary gendarme on horseback waited at the corner of the street. Christine's pulse quickened; what if he were to recognize her or Erik? She felt Erik's arms tense; saw his fingers twitching restlessly on the reins as he fought the instinct to urge the horse into a gallop.

This particular man was a captain; she was sure she had met him before at a social gathering of some sort. She had, no doubt, been on Raoul's arm, wearing one of those ridiculously fancy gowns. Christine met the gendarme's eyes briefly. She turned away immediately, her heart thumping madly in her chest.

That single second of eye contact proved to be fatal. The gendarme gave a shout, taking off after them. Erik immediately urged Iago into a gallop. Several gunshots rang out behind them. As they passed branching roads, more gendarmes came chasing after them on horseback. Swift and agile, Iago streaked out of the city. Erik steered him towards a forest path. It was faster and less noticeable than the main road. Risking a glance behind her, Christine saw some of the gendarmes take the main road. However, three of them spotted the black stallion in the woods and pursued them with heated cries.

"Take the reins." Erik handed her the leather strip.

She sat mutely.

"Take them!" he commanded with all the force of the Phantom. Christine hastily gripped the reins just as he took one hand off them. Christine saw him fingering the gleaming tip of a revolver in the inside of his coat. She met his eyes with panicked disbelief. "Don't look," he warned her; he didn't want her to witness any violence, especially not by his hand.

Of course, killing the gendarmes would be a much neater solution than simply wounding them and allowing them to live to tell the tale. Sparing their lives would only cause trouble for him in the future. But he could not. He was weary of blood and killing, and was striving to be a man worthy of standing next to Christine. A man who whose name was not tarnished by the label of "murderer".

One hand on Christine's waist for balance, Erik turned around, aimed as carefully as he could from a galloping horse, and shot the closest gendarme. The bullet caught the man in the shoulder and he cried in pain. Erik shot the two other men, wounds that were debilitating but not fatal. Erik turned back to face the road, extending his hands for the reins. Christine gave them to him silently.

Sure that the gendarmes had given up on their chase, Erik slowed Allegro into a walk. Christine could feel her heart pounding in her chest under her corset. She took several deep breaths, trying – in vain – to stop herself from trembling. Were there three corpses now, lying in the road behind them?

"Are they dead?" she asked, her voice flat and emotionless. Erik knew as well as she did that she was suppressing her natural sympathy. She was keeping the emotions bottled up inside her, forcing herself to keep calm in the current situation. He knew that it was him who put her in this situation, in this emotional turmoil, and he hated himself for it.

At his prolonged silence, she urged a little harshly: "Well?"

"No." his voice was as impassive as hers. The decision to be merciful would come back to haunt him in the end. But at least he had a clear conscience.

In relief, Christine let go of the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. "Thank you." she whispered.


	5. Stand And Watch It Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next installment to AIWIF. I'm sorry that the story is going slow at the moment. But I felt that this chapter was necessary in order to understand Christine's character development. There will be a bit of fluff next chapter, for those of you who asked for it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Phantom in any way. And I don't even WANT to own Love Never Dies.

_March 1882_

_Dear Madame Giry and Meg,_

Christine hesitated, chewing the top of her pen thoughtfully. If there was a way of eloquently explaining the situation to her (albeit unofficial) adoptive family, it evaded her mind. She didn't know how to tell them everything that had happened in the space of two short days. She had been a night away from sealing her fate as a Vicomtesse. If she had realized her feelings only several hours later, it would have been too late. She would have been Raoul's wife, one who would fake smiles and endure deprecating glances for the rest of her life. In a single impetuous moment, she had rewritten the plan she made for her life.

She wondered what would Meg think of this. Meg, who dreamed shamelessly of fairy tale endings and childhood sweethearts. Meg, who was charmed by a handsome face and sweet-talk as easily as Christine herself had once been. Meg, who would be abhorred with Christine's choice of a lover and fiancé. Like the rest of the superficial Parisian society, Meg would not begin to understand how something grotesque could be loved.

Madame Giry would have a different take from Meg, Christine decided. Christine suspected that Annette Giry had glimpsed, however briefly, the beauty of Erik’s soul. She had been opposed to the plan to capture and kill him during the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. She had tried to convince Raoul and the managers that it was unwise to plot against Erik. To a certain extent, Erik had trusted her, at least until she had showed the Vicomte into his home and shelter, invading the privacy he had sought.

Christine knew that the Girys must be worried over her sudden disappearance. What would they make of the story she was about to tell them? Would they be able to accept that she had chosen a man who, in society's eyes, was a monster and a murderer? Or would they abide to the views imposed by society, that Christine was insane to leave a rich, handsome Vicomte? Or worse still – would they think that Erik had kidnapped her once again?

Pressing the tip of her fountain pen to the page, Christine began writing the letter in her tidy, cursive hand.

_I know that you must be concerned about my disappearance. No doubt it will become the biggest news in Paris. I hope you can forgive me for causing you both so much worry and unease. I know that I should have told you beforehand, but the situation prevented me from doing so._

_Please believe me when I say that I left Raoul by my own wishes. I went to find Erik the night before my wedding. I had wanted to part with him on better terms than we had the last time I saw him. But when we reunited, I realized that I love him. Up until that moment I had been nothing but a fickle child. I had scorned him as the rest of the world had, even when I had seen the beauty he possessed, the light of his soul. Even when I had known his kindness and had known him as a friend for years. And in that night that I went to find him, I finally grew up. I realized that I love him. I love him for him – for Erik – and not as anything else. Not as the Phantom, or as an angel. As Erik, the man._

_We left Paris late last night, and are currently in a property Erik owns. Meg, I know that you would be surprised at my elopement. My God, that makes it sound so romantic and adventurous! I'm sure that you, dear Meg, will have plenty of fantasies from now on! I know it seems impossible, but believe me when I say that I love him. He is not keeping me here against his will. Rather, he would have gladly allowed me to return to Raoul if I wanted to._

_I know that my decision to leave Raoul is cruel and unfair. I do regret leaving him in such a manner, but what choice do I have? I cannot very well tell him that I am returning to his rival, who has threatened his life! In his eyes, I would, once more, become the Phantom’s whore. More importantly, he would never leave us be, or allow Erik to escape the law. Erik would insist upon coming with me to tell Raoul; he is a gentleman in that way, and in many others. And Raoul would do all that he can to reclaim me and convict Erik. I would be a Viscomtesse, trapped by the gilded cage of a life in aristocracy. And I can’t imagine what tortures Raoul would inflict upon Erik._

_Erik and I are planning to leave France. I will write to you again as soon as I can._

_Missing you dearly,_

_Christine_

Upon finishing her letter, Christine put down her pen. She remembered how, at one in the morning, they had reached the small house in the countryside. She was so tired that she was asleep on her feet, and had barely seen anything as Erik guided her to her bedroom. She had barely seen the house. She vaguely remembered Erik lifting her sleepy body from horseback and carrying her up the stairs to this room.

Her room was small but sufficient, as it held all the basic necessities. It contained a simple wooden bed, covered with sheets white and spotless. The lack of personality in the room was surprising. Somehow, she had made the assumption that Erik's distinctive style would be in every room of the house. But then again, he probably didn't even use this room, and had given it minimum decoration, as he wasn't bothered with it.

She smiled to herself as she remembered how she had snuck out of the de Chagny mansion to seek out Erik. She had planned to tell him about her wedding the next day – not that he wouldn't have known, with all the publicity surrounding it. But she felt that she had to tell him herself, that she was going to belong to another man the next day. That it was her last night as Christine Daae.

How differently that night had turned out! By leaving the arms of Raoul, even temporarily as she thought, the mist before her eyes had been lifted, and she could finally clearly see her own love for Erik. Erik loved her, loved her more than Raoul ever could. Raoul's gentle love could not hold a candle in comparison to the bright flame of Erik's passionate and intense love. Now in hindsight, Christine could see that even in her brief engagement to Raoul, after the initial period of infatuation, what they had was friendship. _Deep_ friendship and affection, yes; but that was all that could be. Their marriage would be based on nothing more than the love of friends. It can never compare to the love she had for Erik, and the love he lavished upon her in return.

Christine knew that she could not have let Raoul touch her on their marriage night, would not let him take her as she had willingly let Erik done so. For weeks she had fretted over her wedding night. The idea of letting a man take her so completely was terrifying. But she had let Erik do so without so much as a second thought! It had felt natural and perfect. In that moment, the rush of fervour of his kisses and the head-spinning giddiness was all that existed. Even being near him inspired more desire in her intimacies with Raoul ever did. Raoul was, in a way, just like her – naively trying to recapture a dream that was long over. If they had stayed as the boy and girl who met at the seaside so many years ago, they may have eventually become lovers, in every sense of the word. But in the years of their separation, they had grown up, and Christine had to leave behind the boy who rescued her scarf from the sea.

But the sea was what she was attracted to. Constant and comforting, but untamed and powerful at the same time, where the society and civilization was but a distant cry, and it was in nature when she was truly free to be herself. When she accepted Raoul's proposal, she was a girl – innocent in the ways of love, battling mixed feelings about the man who was her mentor, and in her confusion she had easily accepted her affection towards Raoul as love.

But she knew that she could never forget her Angel of Music. Not his commanding presence, nor his alluring charisma, and most of all, not his hypnotizing voice and the hauntingly broken look in his eyes as she left him for the final time. She knew that she would never stop regretting that they had parted on such terms. That was why she had ventured into the bowels of the opera house once more on that moonless night. She had not been afraid of the darkness; rather she found it to be her friend, her cloak of invisibility to aid her escape.

Christine ran a hand through her hair, pushing the unruly chestnut curls back from her face momentarily and letting them fall again. What was going to happen to her now? Raoul must have been devastated the previous morning when he woke to find his bride gone from her room. Heart-broken, and his pride damaged. She could imagine Philippe and Laure-Marie chastising him: _I told you, that chorus girl was after nothing but your money. She’s had her bit of fun, now she's going to whore herself to another rich man._

Was it true that she was with Raoul only for a bit of fun? No; she had loved him. That much she knew. Their love had been true; sweet and brief and naive, yes. But it was real. Did it make her the villain, the one who left a path of broken hearts behind her? When she had to choose between two men she loved, she chose wrongly and had delivered a crippling blow to Erik. When she realized her mistake, she had had to hurt Raoul in order to mend the damage she had done to Erik. But she had reopened Erik’s old scars by abandoning him to his own darkness. The wounds on his soul were deep, deeper even than the ones she gave him. They left scars, and even under her nurture she didn't have confidence that they would disappear completely.

And what of now, when Raoul must have sworn to kill Erik and bring her home back to marry him? Alone, Erik would have had no trouble leaving France. The young Viscomte would merely be a nuisance in preventing his escape, not even a real challenge or opponent. But now she was here, too. She, who was pathetically weak and frail and inexperienced. She, who he had to take care of. She, who was his burden. She, who was his weakness. She, who would be the cause of his ruin.

Once again she had catalyzed a whole series of events. And this time, she had truly burned the bridge in her wake. All she could do now was watch it go up in flames while she continued down the only path that remained before her.

 


	6. Let Me In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not updating sooner, but I was on holiday with no laptop two weeks ago, and when I came back I got caught up over life and stuff.
> 
> A HUGE thank you once again to everyone who's read the story. I'm sorry that the previous chapter may have been boring, but like I said, it was necessary. This chapter has some of that fluff that you have been asking for.
> 
> Disclaimer: *Insert creative way of saying that I don't own Phantom here*

_March 1882_

Two timid taps on the door brought Erik's focus back to the room in the house outside of Paris. He reluctantly rose from the working table and opened the door to see Christine. _Who else did you think it would be, fool?_  He chastised himself. "Come in," He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter. Blue grey eyes wide with curiosity, she took in her surroundings.

She had assumed the room to be a bedroom; in truth it was more like a workshop. The room was almost twice as large as her room in this house. Paper was piled messily on top of a large desk, some blank, others bearing hand-written marks. A brief glance indicated that there they contained a mixture of musical notes and various artistic, technical or architectural designs. On a wooden working table was a dark blue dress, with a few pins still in it. 

"Try it on," he lifted the dress, pulling out the pins. She took the soft material in her hands. It was not unlike the green dress she had on, the one she had been wearing since she snuck out of the de Chagny mansion to seek out Erik. The green dress was, though comfortable, wrinkled and travel-stained. She was glad to have a change of clothes.

Christine tried on the dress in her room. There was a frame under the bodice, a feature of the dress that was unique to Erik's craftsmanship. It served the purpose of a corset without actually putting one on.

 _Never put on a corset, especially when you sing._ She recalled his instructions from years ago. _I don't see how you can sing when you are unable to breathe. But if you are ever forced to wear one, wear it as loose as you can._

_But Angel..._

_You don't need a corset to make you look beautiful, my dear. Don’t be like those girls who lace themselves up so tight that they can hardly breathe, and they always look sickly and fatigued. Beauty can only comes to those who are natural and healthy. Don't abandon your health, and do **not**  be a mindless slave to fashion._

She examined herself in the mirror. As it was with the gowns Erik had made or ordered for her in the past, the dress was the most fitting garment she had ever worn. It was light and comfortable and modest, but somehow highlights her figure. The neckline was a little lower than what she was used to, but then again she didn't have much cleavage to show off anyway. The dress fit her perfectly, as Erik was a master in all knowledge about her, from her favorite flavor of sweets to the exact size of her body.

Of course he would know; a genius like him must know, after spent a whole night with her in his arms! She giggled softly to herself as she remembered the night they had spent intimately with each other. She knew that it was improper and scandalous, but that made it all the more amazing. The fact that society would never accept them – the demon and the angel, the master and the student, the Phantom and his songbird. But, underneath all these labels, they were Erik and Christine –  a woman and a man, no more and yet no less.

"Does it fit?" Erik called from outside. He must have heard her soft laughter. There truly was no detail so small that it escaped his notice.

"Yes, I'll be out in a moment." Christine stood for in front of the full-length mirror and attempted to tame her hair, which was even more disheveled from changing out of her old dress and into this one. Deciding this was the best she could do without keeping Erik waiting, she opened the door to let him admire his work on his model. 

"So how do you like your latest masterpiece, Monsieur Destler?"  She smiled sweetly. 

"It's not masterpiece; simply an accessory for my prima donna," he corrected her, teasing her with the hint of a smile. Then in seriousness, he asked. "Any alterations needed?"

She shook her head. "Fits me like a glove."

"Good; then I can make more with the same measurements,"

"You didn't need me to try it on," she pointed out. "You've ordered dresses for me before."

"Well, it never hurts to check," he shrugged.

"You just like seeing me as a model, don't you?" Her lips broke into a teasing grin. "And I'm sure this daring neckline is here for a reason."

"Of course that's not it." he argued, but underneath his pallor she could swear that there was the faintest hint of a blush.  

Later that evening, Erik sat alone in his room. He was settled against the headboard of his bed, one of his long legs hanging off the bed and the other, bent at the knee, acted as a surface on which he placed a piece of paper and sketched. While drawing appeared like an idle pastime, one that was a luxury while he was a fugitive with a young woman, it helped him to focus his mind. As his mind ticked at impossible speeds, his pen flickered across the page.

He knew that the most important matter right now was to leave France. While he was not yet a wanted man outside of Paris, news would travel fast, and it was tempting fate to stay in France. He contemplated the viable options; assessed a mental map of Europe, running possibilities through in his mind. Belgium or England would be the fastest way to leave the country, though perhaps Spain would be the most unpredictable. There was also the matter of safety; if he were alone he could leave false trails, take unexpected twists and turns, tackle impossible terrain and weather. But now he had Christine with him, and he knew that she was not as used to hardship as he was.

He could barely believe that she was here with him. It was not so long ago that he had been ready to die alone in his house on the lake. And now he was in a neglected piece of property, with Christine a hallway down from him and prepared to lead a life together with him.

Even in his most absurd fantasies, he had not allowed himself to indulge in such a possibility. He knew that there was no reason that Christine would choose him over the Vicomte, yet she did anyway. He was half prepared for her to announce – of course, for Christine would be too kind to do so bluntly – that her elopement with him was an effect of her pre-wedding nerves, and that she wished to return to be Raoul’s wife. Yet as time passed since their night reunion, it seemed increasingly likely that Christine truly wished to stay with him. Erik could barely comprehend it, but he was more than willing to accept it.

Erik glanced down at the page before him and realized that his subconscious had revealed his musing, by inscribing Christine’s likeness on the paper. _Focus, Destler!_ He admonished himself, turning his mind back to more pressing matters.

After she had bathed, Christine looked through the house for Erik. The door of his bedroom was ajar; she stole a glance to see him reclined on the bed, his long legs stretching out in front of him, one on the bed and the other hanging off. The leg on the bed was bent at the knee, with some papers resting on it. He was holding a pen in his hand, scribbling meditatively on the page – perhaps music for a new piece. His black jacket was off, revealing the white shirt with the top two buttons undone. His tall, lean form was sprawled out, completely relaxed, and she didn't have the heart to draw her artist out of his state of inspiration.

She was about to return to her room when he spoke without looking up. "You can come in, you know."

She was a little annoyed that he had noticed her. "How did you know I was there?" She asked, crossing the almost bare room to the bed. His gaze never left the page he was working on.

"Stealth isn't one of your strengths," when he looked up at her his crooked smile was wry, but his eyes sparkled with concealed warmth. He slid his leg off the bed and straightened his posture in one smooth motion, so that he was at the edge of the bed and the space beside him was freed for Christine.

"Clearly not," she agreed, sitting next to him. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she folded them neatly in her lap. "Unlike you," she couldn't help but add. Her eyes drifted to the paper that he had been scribbling on, now resting in his lap. She had assumed that he was writing music, but he had surprised her again. On the paper, next to a few illegible lines of writing, was a sketch of her. She took the piece from him, studying the drawing. Her hair was down in its luscious curls, a few free strands falling too closely to her eyes. A hand had reached up to brush the unruly locks back. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyebrows raised, eyes widened in an expression of pleasant surprise. Despite being roughly drawn in black ink, each detail was perfect, every plane and curve of her face was a faithful imitation of her features. The natural spontaneity of the moment was perfectly captured in the rounded lines.

"It's not that good," Erik mumbled, embarrassed that she has seen the drawing. He tried taking it back, but she snatched it away from him, out of his reach.

"Not that good?" She turned to him incredulously. " _Not that good_? This is amazing, Erik."

"Give it back; its not one of my better pieces." He made another futile attempt to grab the page without leaning over her.

"Wait!" She held it out of his reach, studying the sketch more closely. Each detail was perfect; she herself didn't realize that her nose ended in a slight curve, nor did she recognize the way her eyebrows arced in such a way. Her hand was petite and slender, as feminine as the gentle curve of her full lips. 

"Christine!" Erik wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled. Christine let out a cry of surprise as she lost balance and toppled over, ended in some sort of awkward position with her head on Erik's lap. Blushing, she clambered up and passed the drawing back to him. He folded it up with care and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Some of his hair fell in front of his eyes, and he pushed them back half-heartedly, only to have them rebelliously fall again. Christine had never seen him look younger or more vulnerable than that moment. She had never seen him without his black formal jacket or waistcoat, and now that he had discarded both, it was as though another layer of his many masks were off. The white shirt he wore now hugged and highlighted his form, showing his lean, almost graceful build. Not for the first time, his physique reminded her of some feline predator – graceful and dangerous.

She didn't have the words to comfort him or ask him what was bothering him. So tentatively, she placed a hand on his back. He stiffened at her touch, but relaxed after a second.

"I'm fine," he sighed, straightening, and she removed her hand. "It feels... I don't know how it feels, letting you see things like that." A light crease appeared in the smooth skin of her forehead, urging him to explain. He took that as his cue to continue. "I've never let anyone see my drawings, or hear my music, or study my designs. It's as though I’m allowing you into the deep recesses of my soul, to see my weaknesses."

Christine remained silent, formulating her next words, trying to string her thoughts together to form coherent sentences. "Your work is pure genius, Erik," She said slowly, testing the water to see how far he would let her go. "And I know how hard it is for you to let me see it. But I can promise that I will not despise you, or hate you, for it. I'm ready to know anything you want me to know." He knew then that she was referring to far more than his artistic achievements. She was alluding to something else – his past; his life; every dark shadow in his mind.

Her eyes, the colour of a cloudy sky, stared earnestly into his amber ones, and he saw how she meant every word that she said. Erik had always been gifted with, among many other talents, the skill to tell if someone was lying. Or perhaps it was due to experience, from all those times he had been lied to and betrayed. He knew now, looking into Christine's eyes and her open face that she believed every word she said. And although he knew that she would not be able to keep that promise, he somehow believed her, too.

When he spoke, his voice was steady. "I'll try to let you in. I don't know if I have lost the ability to completely trust in someone, but I will try my best to trust you with everything."

Her heart tugged lightly in appreciation. "I'll always be here, Erik. I will never turn from you, no matter what is it you have done." She squeezed his hand, a gesture that should have been intimately romantic, but it felt more like a comforting touch between friends. And somehow, their conversation had spiraled away from his work to much deeper waters; places that he had not been prepared to explore so early on with her. But maybe this was what trust was: allowing her to steer just as much as he did, even though hated feeling out of control.

Erik was silent for a long time, and Christine wondered whether she had intruded too deep into his shell. "Thank you," he breathed at last. His golden eyes were conflicted, his yearning to let her in warred with decades of defensive instinct. "I don't deserve this... what you have offered... or someone willing to offer it at all." He met her wonderfully clear grey eyes. "I'm not the easiest man to be with, that much I know. What I did last year..." The apology was scrawled over his face. Even with the mask on, his remorse was cutting and tangible. "I'm so sorry for my madness, and the price you had to pay for it."

She shook her head of chestnut curls with a soft smile. "I wouldn't be here if I hadn't forgiven you for them. I hope that you would are willing to start a new life. Leave the darkness behind."

His crooked smile was wry. "I'll endeavor to do so. Christine, I promise you, I _will_ try to be better, for your sake if nothing else."

"Thank you, Erik," She kissed his cheek before rising. _I'm so proud of you. And so, so, grateful._

 


	7. Today's The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, but you already know that.

_April 1882_

Apart from his lineage, Raoul de Chagny had always taken pride in his courtesy and his gentlemanly ways. When a woman rejected him, he always accepted it graciously. He may be slightly irked at the refusal, but it didn't injure his ego. He respected the woman's choice in turning him down. He didn't harbor resentment towards any men who did succeed in winning her over.

But that was in the past.

Christine was more than a pretty girl who took a fancy to his good looks and title. He had always wanted to marry her, ever since they first met as children at the seaside. Back then, he was too young to comprehend the unspoken rule of marrying within his own social class. They parted ways when she was nine and he was ten, as she moved to Paris with her ailing father. In the adolescent years that followed, Raoul often wondered about the charming Swedish girl who vanished from his life just as suddenly as she entered it.

As he reached adulthood, those colourful childhood memories of Christine gradually faded. Following the death of his father, Raoul took up responsibilities in his family's affairs. He accompanied Philippe to gatherings, mostly social parties and the occasional business meeting. He met countless women, flirted with half of them – all the ones his own age or younger – but was never inclined to court or marry any of them.

When he met Christine again, she was an aspiring singer. As an actress she was at the bottom of the social ladder, while he, a Vicomte and a de Chagny, no less, was at the top. But seeing her on stage that night – beautiful and radiant – he knew that he had to have her. She brought back into his life their old childhood dream. Only now, she was the troubled maiden of their nursery tales, her life and freedom endangered by a monster. Raoul had been her white knight, the one who saved her from that monster. Everything they dreamed of as children was almost coming true, only a night away from Raoul's grasp, when it all ended abruptly.

The thought of her disappearance made his blood boil. There was no doubt that the Phantom was to blame. He must have snuck into the de Chagny mansion, and spirited Christine away into the night, into his kingdom spun from illusions and deceit. The monster must have been furious that Christine – his protégée, whom he thought was so securely his – had chosen Raoul over himself, and kidnapped her out of spite. Did he honestly think that Christine would choose him, an aged, deformed monster who lived in eternal darkness, over the youth, beauty and wealth that Raoul had and the life in the sun that he could promise Christine? But the Phantom was a madman, and it was doubtless that he had stolen Christine to take revenge on Raoul's besting him.

What he hadn't factored in was Raoul perseverance. Although it had been a month since Christine's disappearance and most of the police had stopped searching for her, Raoul wouldn't stop. He would show that monster what was the consequence of stealing from Raoul de Chagny.

* * *

Erik had decided to go to England. Christine didn't care where they went; she just wanted to see the world. Crossing the English Channel to Devon was the quickest way out of France. Their plan was vague – "we'll see how it goes" was the full extent of it. They would travel through England, possibly Scotland and Ireland, then maybe return to continental Europe when the search for the Phantom has quieted.

Their carriage was small and light enough for them to travel quickly and quietly, though the design was elegant enough to fit in a middle-upper class environment. Christine could hardly believe that it was only weeks since they left the city. Not so long ago she was preparing to become a Vicomtesse, and now she was traveling to far-off place with a man hunted by the authorities.

In England, they posed as a married couple on their honeymoon, and no one so much as suspected that Erik was the Phantom. Outside of France the incident was little more than a ghost story, quickly dismissed as rumor and superstition. That first night of their journey, they stayed in an inn in Devon, small but clean and tidy. As soon as the door was closed behind them, they turned at stared at each other. The double bed, with its seemingly innocent white sheets, seemed to mock at them.

"I can take that chair, if you want me to..." Erik began awkwardly, gesturing at the stiff-looking armchair that stood in a corner of the room. After all, he had fallen asleep in worse places, anywhere from at a desk scattered with paper and quills and ink, to a stone floor in Russia in the middle of winter.

"There's no reason for you not to sleep in the bed. We've shared a bed before," Christine tried acting stronger and surer than she felt, but her embarrassment betrayed her by setting her cheeks aflame, and she ended the sentence in a mumble, looking at the ground. She forced herself to meet Erik's eyes. "It's simply pointless for you to sleep in that chair when the bed's large enough for both of us." She announced matter-of-factly. This time, to her pride, she didn't look away and she kept her voice from shaking.

It was easier said than done. Erik lifted one corner of the thick blanket, gesturing for Christine to get onto the bed. She did so and he settled on the opposite side of the bed, both of them lying on the edge, trying to stay as far as they could from each other. However, despite being a double bed, the mattress was not as spacious as they would have liked. Even though they were both lying as far as they could from each other, their backs brushed lightly against each other's.

Christine could sense Erik's unease. His rigid back. His deep breathing purposely even. The slight shifts he made to minimize their contact. She realized that she was doing the same thing. She was as tense and drawn as he was. The last time she spent the night in his arms had felt completely natural, with none of this awkwardness.  _To hell with propriety_ , she decided. Ignoring society's expectations of what a lady should do – sharing a bed and taking a lover were not deemed ladylike anyway, she reasoned – Christine rolled over and wrapped her arms around Erik's torso, letting his warmth seep through his nightshirt and her chemise.

Erik felt Christine's icy body press against his back "You're freezing." She nodded.  _How cold would she be to hold me voluntarily?_  Guilty, Erik rolled over, enveloping her slight body in his arms. She eagerly snuggled up to him. "You should have told me that you're cold."

"You're so warm," she murmured, nestling her head in the hollow between his shoulder and his neck, tucked under his chin. One of her arms came up around his neck. Erik's skin was usually evidently cooler than her own. Until she felt his warmth, she had not realized that her fingers and toes were starting to go numb.

"I'm sorry," the remorse was clear in his voice. As he spoke, she could feel his cool breath ruffle the hair at the top of her head.

"What for?"

"I can't give you even the most basic necessities. I can't even give you warmth and comfort. I'm sorry for everything, for what I've put you through last year. My temper is a force that I have no control over, and I'm sorry that you have been on the receiving end of that. I let my jealousy and madness take me to a point where I resorted to the most defiling behavior. That night after  _Don Juan_ , Christine, I was honestly on the verge of hurting you, or your boy. You never deserved any of that. I'm sorry for being a beast, for being a monster. I'm sorry for all that I had done against you, that you had suffered because of me."

"Do you think that I still hold a grudge against all that?" Christine asked incredulously. "I'm here of my own free will, Erik! Did you think that I would so willingly marry a man I loathe?" She slid her small hand into the cocoon of his long fingers, guiding his thumb over her ring. "I love you, Erik. And that is enough to undo everything you have done." She said with fervor, palming his cheek. To her disappointment, he casually shifted so that she did not touch the disfigurement.

Stunned, Erik could formulate no reply. Christine seemed to demand none from him. They slipped into silence, neither falling asleep. Erik marveled at the way Christine had freely forgiven him, and at the casual way that she accepted – even welcomed – physical contact with him.

"You are warm?" He broke the silence, maneuvering the topic from himself to her wellbeing. He felt with no little relief that the temperature of her hands had returned to normal, so that he was noticeably cooler than she was.

She nodded against his chest. Then, fearing that he would want to turn around again, she tightened her hold around him. She felt his abdomen rise and fall with a sigh, and he placed a tentative hand on the small of her back. The comfortable silence reminded her once again of their days in the opera house, how she could feel him watching her until she fell asleep, although neither one of them said a word to the other.

In the nights that followed, the awkwardness disappeared.

* * *

Christine was worried. And unsure. And more than anything else, terrified.

She had always been pale, but now she resembled Erik with his corpse-like complexion; her cheeks were worryingly bloodless. Her back ached like an old lady's, as did her feet, and her bosom was so tender that the lightest touch ached. She knew what was going on with her body; of course she did. And every time common sense tried to make her acknowledge the truth, she pushed it deeper into the recess of her mind, refusing to let it speak up in its tremulous voice. She denied it; denied what had happened to her; denied the suspicion that had festered in her for weeks now.

_No_. She steeled her mind. She pushed the thought away yet again with cold determination. It simply couldn't be a possibility. She refused to think the very word that stood for her "condition". It would be fatal. It would become  _real_.

She wasn't ready. Erik wasn't ready. They were still on the run. They weren't people who were settled down, with a beautiful house, or a steady job, or even led a safe life. They didn't have a clear future. They didn't have safety. They could not provide for another.

And then there was the problem of age: Christine was barely twenty herself. She was little more than a child. She was weak and dependent and painfully inexperienced. She had her own problems to deal with. She had to mature and grow up and become someone who could stand on her own two feet.

Of course, there was a possibility that all this worrying was for nothing. After all, her condition was merely a suspicion. Not much less than fact, given the symptoms, but still, it was unproven. Christine dared to hope, even if the chance was slim. Perhaps she had missed her monthly bleeding due to stress. Perhaps she was tired because traveling was taking a toll on her delicate health. Perhaps there was a sensible, medical explanation to this all. Perhaps all this worry was for naught.

So, she would wait until she was certain. There was no point in alarming Erik, only to find out that all this was a misunderstanding.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. This would remain her secret for now.


	8. Two Strands of a Melody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who are confused about why Christine knows that she is pregnant so soon after she slept with Erik, about a month has passed since the prologue. So she would know that she is expecting! I'm fairly sure that I mentioned it in the last chapter, but it wasn't very obvious. The passing of time is mentioned again in this chapter. By THIS chapter, it has been two months since the prologue. Hope I cleared that up to any confused readers!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, I'm not Leroux or Kay or ALW, etc etc etc...

_May 1882_

Erik woke to find Christine already awake next to him. This was hardly surprising; Christine had always been an early riser. Madame Giry was very strict about her ballerinas' punctuality to their morning practices. "Good morning," he murmured, struck by how at home she looked nestled between the sheets at his side. She began to reply, but almost immediately cut herself off and leapt from the bed, running to the bathroom with a hand over her mouth. Erik could hear the sounds of her retching.

He found himself worrying for her. Perhaps it had been something she ate the night before, or, more likely, their journey had tired her out and now she was ill.

When Christine reemerged, she looked far worse than she did moments ago. Although her complexion was naturally pale, it now had a pallid and sickly tinge to it, and she looked tired and drawn. He opened his mouth to ask if she was all right, but before he had finished the question, she snapped teresly, "I'm fine."

He looked away, embarrassed. Even after two months together, his insecurities were still very much alive. Some days he would be unconvinced that she could love him. Despite her bad mood, he self-deprecating look upon Erik's face made Christine feel a prick of remorse for her rough retort.

"Honestly, Erik, I'm fine." She repeated, a little less harshly. She sat in front of the mirror and began yanking a brush angrily through her hair. " _Damn_!" She hissed under her breath as the brush caught in her incredibly tangled curls.

Erik slipped on his mask and crossed the room to the vanity. Soundlessly, he extended an open palm. Christine placed the offending brush in it heavily. Taking his place behind her, he gently tugged the brush through the sea of wild curls. "Such vulgar language for a lady…" He quipped, half to himself.

"I don't care." She muttered like a pouting child. She set her elbows on the vanity and rested her chin in her hands. "I've said worse, anyway – and in  _your_ opera, no less." She added with a pointed look at Erik's reflection in the mirror.

This brought a smirk to his face, although his eyes, focused on her hair, didn't meet hers. "Even Aminta didn't curse."

"No, but there were so many improper lyrics in  _The Point of No Return_."

"She was driven by her passion." Suddenly his voice was raw with desire, his mouth skimming over her hair in place of the brush. Her eyes fluttered shut at the feather-light touch of his lips. The faint scent of roses clung to her hair. The luscious texture of her rich curls was tantalizing.

Erik's kisses trailed from her hair to her temple, over her cheekbones, down the smooth doll-like features to capture her mouth. Christine twisted her neck to the side, deepening the kiss. Her small hands palmed his face, holding him closer, her desire arousing in harmony with his. Erik's arms encircled her slender frame, and hers began to slip around his neck. The brush clattered to the floor but she barely heard it. His hands moved to cup her breasts. She winced as the lightest contact caused the tender flesh to ache.

And all of a sudden, like the abrupt end to  _Don Juan Triumphant_ , it was over. Erik was pulling away. His hands, which were on her body moments ago, were retrieving the fallen brush. He returned to brushing her hair. Christine resumed her position, with her chin on her hands. It was as though the episode had not happened. Each rhythmic stroke of her hair was devoid of emotion. Impersonal.

"I'm sorry," his whispered apology broke the silence. Somehow, it was easier to apologize when those pensive eyes weren't piercing into his soul.

"What for?" She was more disappointed than anything else.

"I have to learn to control myself."

Christine rolled her eyes, knowing that he would see it in her reflection, had he only looked up. But he refused to look into the mirror, successfully avoiding her gaze. "Your self-control is better than anyone else's." She argued.

"Not when you're concerned. It's like I'm drunk when I'm being...  _intimate_  with you. I lose control, I don't think clearly…" He trailed off, shaking his head. Christine remained silent as she watched the reflection of his talented hands work their magic on her hair.

"There," He announced in a business-like tone, but with a tint of satisfaction, as he pinned up a strand of her hair. Christine studied her reflection. Erik had worked a miracle on her wild curls. Her hair was in a twist, elegant but practical, secured with pins. A few lose strands hung around her face, adding color to her pale cheeks.

" _Masquerade_ ," He sang softly in that hypnotizing, melodic voice. He began to pull the hood of her traveling cloak carefully over her head. " _Hide your face so the world… will never… find… you_." At the last note, he let the hood drop, resting gently over a rich chocolate sea.

He offered her his hand, and she placed her tiny hand in his palm, just as she had that night when he led her through her dressing room mirror. He helped her to her feet and kissed her knuckles. "Now, we go to London."

* * *

In the semi-darkness, Christine's eyes appeared deep blue rather than grey. Her tiny hand was encased by the cocoon of Erik's spidery fingers. Every exquisite, delicate detail of her face was illuminated by the flicker of a dim lantern.

Trees arched above them, blocking out the starlight. It was a new moon tonight; the second since that night when they made love to each other. Christine flushed guiltily at the thought, her free hand unconsciously flitting to her stomach. She did not regret her actions of that night, for how could she regret returning to her angel? But the memory of that night brought to mind another thought, one that she shied away from, unwilling to confront it.

Presently, she whispered to Erik, "Why are we here?" There was almost something magical about the hush of the sparse woods and she did not want to break the spell with needless conversation.

"You'll see soon, it's a place I discovered when I came to England years ago," Erik replied with compressed excitement in his hushed tones. "Are you tired?" He added in gentle concern.

She shook her head, and those curls fell about her face rebelliously. The visible corner of Erik's mouth lifted upward at her unruly hair, and he brushed the disobedient strands from her eyes.

They reached a break in the trees, and Erik led her through.

"Ohh...!" Christine's gasp was a delightful sound, wonderful in its innocence. In that moment, everything that was young and fresh; delicate and beautiful; immortal yet fleeting, was expressed in that single sound from a young woman's lips.

Her eyes widened as she took in the clearing. A lake stretched before her, it's surface reflecting the same multitude of stars that glittered in the heavens. Every individual light, every distinct spark, was mirrored in the still waters. Surrounded by stars, Erik extended a hand to Christine. "Dance with me?"

She smiled demurely, placing her hand in Erik's. His hand rested at the small of her back, hers on his shoulder. In his melodious tenor, quite unlike the voice of any other mortal, he began singing, and they swayed to the music.

" _Love's a curious thing,_

_It often comes disguised._

_Look at love the wrong way,_

_It goes unrecognized_."

It was the song that he had been humming and singing for days now, obviously a composition in the works. So she joined him with flawless soprano tones that were his creation as much as the song they now sung.

" _So look with your heart,_

_And not with your eyes._

_A heart understand,_

_A heart never lies_."

Their voices entwined like silken chords running together in a braid, swelling in perfect melodious euphony.

" _Believe what it feels,_

_And trust what it shows._

_Look with your heart,_

_The heart always knows."_

In the clearing, by the lake, under the light of the stars, they danced to the music of their voices. At the refrain, Erik twirled Christine around and pulled her close again, banishing the cold rush of air that met him in the absence of her warmth.

" _Love is not always beautiful_

_Not at the start._

_So open your arms,_

_And close your eyes tight._

_Look with your heart,_

_And when it finds love,_

_Your heart will be right._ "

As they finished the song, the melody left them with a feeling of serenity. There was not a single thing in this world that could go wrong as long as they were together. They could have sworn that they had been granted the immortality of the angels. Their love was so strong that it protected them from Death's icy fingers.

Simply standing and holding one another, the moment stretched out, illuminated by the shimmer of starlight. Christine looked as youthful and demure as ever, gazing adoringly up at Erik through long dark lashes. Erik's mask seemed to reflect the light of the stars, casting a halo-like glow around his face, while the rest of him was shrouded in shadow. Her Phantom and her Angel.

Christine stood on her tiptoes to plant upon his lips a fleeting kiss. "I love you." The words formed themselves on her lips as they brushed his, slipping out into the night air without passing through her mind, natural as breathing.

"I was going to say that before you did." Erik murmured, trying to compress all the emotions that coursed through his blood. They were so intense that if he allowed them to have free reign, he feared that his heart would burst and his body ignite and burn.

Christine crushed herself to his chest, and he held her there, awakening his protective instincts. Their breathing was in harmony, chests rising and falling as one. Once again, Christine's conscience pricked her, reminding her that she wasn't being truthful with Erik. Why did she keep running from the confession? It wasn't something she could hide forever. She eventually had to tell him that she was with child.

_With child._

She stiffened, her hands on her stomach in reverence. It was real. Giving it a name made it real. It was no longer a thought, a shadow of doubt. It was real. Definite. She was pregnant.

_Pregnant._

"Christine… Christine!" She realized that Erik was calling her name; that he had done so several times. He had framed her face in his deft fingers. Worry was written over the visible portion of his features.

"I'm fine…" She murmured. She seemed to be saying that a lot lately; a sure sign that all was not well.

"You're pale as a ghost," He said, apparent disbelief colouring in his voice.

"You're one to talk,  _Opera Ghost_." She taunted in a weak attempt to make a joke out of it. To direct his attention away from her. Anything to delay the inevitable confession. He raised an eyebrow, unamused at her attempt at diversion.

"Erik,  _don't_." She turned away, her hands wringing unconsciously.

"Christine…" His eyes narrowed in warning. He caught her shoulder and turned her to face him.

She sighed in defeat, knowing full well how very stubborn he was, especially when it came to her wellbeing.  _This is as good a time to tell him as any_ , she convinced herself. She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. "I am with child."

His eyes widened with fear, one golden orb peering out from under the ever-impassive white mask, which no doubt concealed an expression that mirrored the revealed portion of his face. A blend of panic, shock and fear. She had seen him in the height of his rage and in the lowest pits of his depression. Somehow this heavy silence now, so thick that it formed a wall between them, was worse than both.

When he raised his eyes to her, his had obtained a certain degree of composure over his expression. " _With child_." He repeated after her, endeavoring to sound as collected as he looked. But he failed to banish the hollow timbre in his voice. It terrified her; he had never sounded so out of control before, not even when he was furious at her for removing his mask. Now he sounded  _afraid_ , and it frightened her. Erik was always wise, always dependable, always armed with the perfect, rational solution. How was she to know what to do when he didn't?

"Was it…" he struggled to get the words out. "That night? When you came back…" she nodded, meeting his gaze with one that was fearful with uncertainty. She looked so scared, so vulnerable, so fragile, that he couldn't resist drawing her into the shelter of his arms. "Oh..." he murmured. "I didn't think that this would happen," he stammered in self-deprecation. "Not after just once that we –Christine, forgive me! I'm so sorry…" he rested his forehead against hers.

She placed her hands on his face. Her right one touched his angular cheek; her left one palmed the cold unfeeling mask. "There's nothing to be sorry for." She whispered, her voice choked by tears, tears that she did not know the reason for shedding. She kissed him softly on his thin lips. He did not react for a moment, tasting the savory flavor on his tongue. Then he realized – the tears were both his and hers.

With a sob, he tilted her head up with the crook of his fingers under her chin. They kissed again and again, on the lakeside shimmering with starlight, under the jeweled heavens, tasting their mingled tears.


	9. Curse and Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: What, did you ACTUALLY think that I'm Leroux or Kay or ALW?

_May 1882_

It was a fair day. The cold spell seemed to be waning, and though the air was chilly, the sun, for once, brought watery warmth. In the past days there was a bite in the air, a crispness that stung at your cheeks and made them tingle. Now the cold was less numbing, instead bringing along something that bordered on warmth, a harbinger of the thawing spring that was to come. Likewise, the dapples of sunlight through the grey clouds were getting more frequent. Standing in a patch of rare sunshine, it took little imagination and sensitivity to feel its warmth, whereas in the past weeks you could strain and stretch all you want without feeling its heat.

Erik had always liked driving through the countryside, avoiding cities and towns where people stared at the strange masked gentleman and the beautiful girl who accompanied him. Today, Christine sat with him in front, wrapped in her thick traveling cloak. Erik wanted her to keep warm, as she had always caught every flu that went around, no matter the season. He was protective, especially now that he knew she was carrying his child.

Presently, she was dozing off. Her head nodded in rhythm to the carriage's rolling, and the loose chestnut curls around her face bounced in harmony. Her head lolled to the side and eventually came to rest at Erik's shoulder. Unaccustomed to anyone letting their guard down around him, he stiffened. As he did so, he tugged on the reins unconsciously and Iago drew to an obedient halt.

The lurching rhythm of the carriage disturbed, Christine lifted her head, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She raised her grey eyes, so alike the sky overhead, and looked at Erik with innocence. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing to worry about." He replied coolly in his soothing tenor. "Go back to sleep." His tone was impersonal, lacking the warmth that was usually present when he spoke to her.

Christine's forehead crinkled. She could tell that there was something he was hiding from her. "What is it?" She pressed.

"I said,  _nothing_." The harshness cut into her like an icy blade, and she flinched at the unexpected moodiness. A flicker of emotion passed over Erik's eyes; perhaps it was remorse, perhaps it was surprise. But it was gone before Christine could identify it.

"Fine." She shot back. She crossed her arms moodily. Her soft features hardened with determination. The stony expression was her own mask to match Erik's, to hide the hurt that she felt. She tried to tell herself that this was not her doing. It was simply the former Opera Ghost making a return. After all, it was getting easy to forget that Erik was the same man who had bullied and blackmailed the opera house.

But she knew that it was not the reason for his cantankerous mood. This was due to something else.

Erik remained aloof for the rest of the day. He didn't snap at her again; his behaviour nothing less than civil. But nevertheless, he was not the same loving man she had grown used to in the past two months. He was more of the Opera Ghost than anything else. Of course, Christine always kept in mind that the terrible Phantom still lurked in there, a hidden dimension of Erik. But she could see no reason for it to return and haunt them, not when he had all but cast off that persona.

When they were in the public eye, he would often take her hand or arm, or at the very least stand so close to her that their arms brushed. But today, he refused to come into physical contact with her. He had withdrawn himself and his thoughts into the guarded fortress of his mind. His mind was a deep, murky lake, whose black waters were a region closed off to her.

As the carriage drew to a stop in front of an inn, Erik got off, and held out a hand to assist Christine in doing so. As soon as she was securely on the ground, his hand drew away. Watching him soundlessly pick up their luggage and walk towards the inn, Christine couldn't help but shake the feeling that she was the cause for his ominous silence.

As soon as they had entered their room and the door was shut behind them, Christine turned to her fiancé. "Erik, we need to talk." Her hands were on her hips. Her hair was in a lightly tousled crown. Her grey eyes were cold and stony.

Erik raised an eyebrow at her, but remained silence.

"In all honesty, Erik," she sighed, exasperated. "What is the matter with you today?"

"Nothing." His response was as flat as the one he gave earlier in the day.

" _Nothing_?" Christine repeated after him. "When something is clearly amiss? I was under the impression that couples tell each other what's bothering them. Tell me what's wrong!" As strong as she sounded, a note of desperation crept into her voice.

Erik gave a weary sigh. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "There is so much that is wrong, Christine."

Her heart softened. Christine sat next to him. He immediately tensed. "Is it about the baby?" She whispered softly.

He nodded. "What if it's like me? What would you do if the child you grow to love after nine months – no, more like ten – is born a devil? What would you do then? Somehow scars and deformities are all the more terrible when they are inflicted upon children. Could you bear looking at a child as malformed as I am? Would you curse his father for passing on this affliction?"

"I would never stop loving you. Even if our child is inflicted as you are, I would love him all the same." She replied. "I love you, don't I? I  _will_  love this baby, which we created with our love, even if he bears a deformity ten times worse than yours!" She declared ardently.

"But the rest of the world is still as cruel as ever. Anyone ugly, deformed,  _different_ , would be subject to torment. You cannot protect it from the entire world!" His distress was evident. "There is no way, save hiding it from them. Keep it in isolation. That's what my mother tried doing; I'm glad that it's turned out so well!" Erik remarked bitterly. "And because of that, I don't know whether I am capable of love. And I am most definitely not capable of caring and nurturing a child."

"You love me." Christine reminded him. "When I was a child, you protected me from the world. Your comfort, your gentle but strict manner, simply the thought of you, was my shield against everything the world had hurled at me. I have faith that you will be the greatest father in the world, if only you would let yourself."

"The child may be born with problems other than the physical impairment. Children with major birth defects rarely survive past infancy; it's nature's own form of mercy, to spare them the pain of a sickly life. The baby could die within its first month. It could be  _stillborn_."

"You survived." She challenged him stubbornly. "And you've never been ill; you're probably healthier than anyone else in the world. If this child is anything like his father, he will survive just as well."

Erik looked at her with incredulity. "How is it that you can be so confident? Are you not even the least bit worried?"

Christine chuckled dryly. "I  _am_  worried. Everything that you've thought about, every single complication, has probably crossed my mind at some point."

Erik regarded her with a mixture of respect and perplexity. "And yet you can remain optimistic." He studied her, this enigma that he would never completely understand.

"Perhaps I am childish and silly," She said earnestly. "But I believe – or at least I try to believe – that we can make it through anything. But yes… I  _am_  afraid. When I first found out…" She bit her lip nervously. Her gaze, as she turned it to him, showed the same fear and worry that he felt. "I was so afraid. Too afraid to even  _think_  about what this would mean, much less tell you. Believe me; I do have the same worries as you do."

He drew her close to him. He wanted to hold her and let her know that, at least, she was no longer alone in her worry and uncertainty. His embrace was tight, tight enough to hurt. And yet she wanted nothing but for him to hold her closer still, to eliminate all the space between them. She wanted his sure, constant, unyielding comfort. At the same time, she comforted him with her optimism, with her confidence, with her trust in their love.

"I'm sorry that I worry so much." He whispered remorsefully against her curls.

"Then stop worrying," Christine pulled back. She lifted her hand to the unmasked side of his face, gently palming his cheek. She touched her fingers to the corner of his eye, running up to his temple. A teasing smile played at the corner of her mouth. "It'll give you wrinkles."

"I hardly think that worrying is the cause for wrinkles. I would credit that to being a cantankerous old man."

"Erik!" She chastised. "You are not old, my love."

"I'm twice your age, Christine."

Christine laughed; a bubbling spring of mirth. "Would you prefer to be a  _boy_  like Raoul?" The look of disgust that dominated Erik's features earned him another peal of her laughter.

"You insolent girl." Erik growled playfully. He pushed Christine, still giggling, onto her back. He propped himself above her on his elbows. His face, hovering above hers, was only a kiss's breadth away. "I think you deserve to be thoroughly punished."

"Oh?" She smirked coyly. "And how will you set about to do that?" She challenged. In response, Erik lowered his head and kissed her hungrily. He had spent all day without her touch, and even the brief withdrawal left him craving her all the more. The little moan she made at the back of her throat was an encouragement for him to continue. As Erik pulled back, he saw the acute lust in Christine's stormy eyes, mirroring the all-consuming heat that threatened to overpower his own senses. "That was hardly adequate punishment," she said a little breathlessly.

"Then perhaps I should continue," Erik pressed his lips to hers again. "To make sure you learn your lesson." He gave in to his desire for her, ravishing her mouth and face with kisses. They grew deeper, more passionate, yet both of them seemed to be content with simply sharing heated kisses, at least for now. The hard material of the mask was a hindering barrier between their skin. Erik stopped their activities momentarily, hoping to remove the mask.

As he shifted slightly away from her, Christine's hand moved to his cravat, fumbling to pull the material from his neck. Her lips created a trail from beneath his earlobe down the side of his neck. "No, Christine –" With a great deal of willpower, he forcibly removed himself from her arms. The look on her face was of such disappointment that he almost gave in and allowed her to have her way with him.

"We  _shouldn't_ ," he explained. "Last time, it was in a moment of passion and we both lost control. Now, I don't want to take you again until I have every right to do so."

Christine sat up to face him. "You do…" she said plaintively.

He fixed her in his golden gaze, magnificent as a tiger's. " _Marriage_ , Christine."

She paused, and nodded in understanding. "When?" She asked simply.

"Not until we get to London." Erik said matter-of-factly. He straightened his jacket and fixed his cravat. "We should arrive in a few days. Then I hope to acquire a house…"

"You worry too much." Christine echoed her earlier words, before pressing a delicate kiss to his lips.


	10. Believe in Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The only things I own are the plot and my OCs, who will be making an appearance in this chapter.

_May 1882_

Erik and Christine entered London amid the evening rush of traffic. The carriage rolled over cobblestone roads as Erik steered Iago through the centre of the city, along the bank of the Thames. Christine was filled with energy as twilight set in on the city. In some ways it was like Paris, a metropolis. At the same time, it could not be more different.

Christine had always associated Paris with the reflective sheen of metals. London, on the other hand, was all shades of gray. Covering the indigo dusk sky was a layer, or rather, multiple layers, of soot and black smoke, which billowed from every rooftop. Homes, factories, and virtually every building sported a chimney that contributed to the thick smog that hung in the atmosphere. The pollution in the air was almost tangible on her tongue.

But she found herself fascinated with the hustle and bustle around them. Had she been away from a city for so long that she had forgotten what it was like? The streets of London seemed so much livelier than the boulevards of Paris. Carriages, carts, pedestrians appeared to move on the streets without any order whatsoever. The clamour of sounds swelled and flowed around her, rising in a raucous din. A chorus of voices, all shouting and calling at once in English, spoken with a variety of unfamiliar accents. The gentle yet powerful sound of the Thames, its waves lapping the shore. The noisy rattle of wheels and hooves on cobblestoned roads.

She turned to Erik, who was driving them through this whirlwind of activity without acknowledging it. Even in the middle of a crowd he appeared to be isolated from it, occupying a bubble all on his own. "You've been here before, haven't you?" She asked him.

"Yes," he replied with an impassiveness that could almost be passed for uncaring, save the warmth that punctuated his voice whenever he spoke to her. "It was many years ago, though; not long before I settled in Paris." He looked at her and a small smile appeared on the unconcealed corner of his mouth. Christine was absolutely endearing as she peered anxiously around the city, trying to take in everything at once. The light of curiosity shone from behind her grey eyes. "My dear, we will spend quite a while in this city. There is no rush for you to try committing this all to memory." He said fondly.

She returned a bashful look, self-consciously tucking her hair behind her ear. She was so utterly beautiful. In the dimness of the twilit street, she seemed to glow with a radiance all her own.

"London is very active in its other arts. There are several art galleries in the city; there is so much I can teach you about art! And the architecture is breathtaking." Erik pointed out the intricate designs on a nearby building. "I've always been partial to the gothic style."

"What about the opera houses?" She pressed. "You have commended them several times… can we watch an opera sometime?" Her face glowed with child-like excitement.

"Of course, my dear," he agreed, the hint of a smile fighting to appear on his lips. "And it is also a great opportunity for your career. Your voice will bring people from all over Europe to London, just to hear the voice of an angel!"

"Yes!" She agreed, laughing merrily at this notion of a bright. "And of course you must compose more arias and duets and operas. Your spirit and my voice, in one combined."

"Everything you want, Christine," he promised softly.

Shortly after arriving in the city, Erik had acquired a house in one of the quiet areas just outside London. It had once been the home of an elderly gentleman. Since his recent death it had been left vacant, slightly out of order. The exterior was stately, with grand designs, but simplistic enough to have the warmth of a home. There were large windows that looked out over the river on one side, and the grounds on the other. Erik had made plans for the renovation of the interior. The house would be fit for living in another month.

The house was a two-storied structure. The second floor consisted of the master bedroom, Erik's study (little used as it was) and no small number of spare rooms. The one adjacent to the master bedroom was destined to become the nursery. On the ground floor were the places for formal greetings – the dining room, the parlour, the drawing room. At the back of the house, on the ground floor, was the music room, with a grand piano still in it. The adjoining room was a huge library. Christine had been thrilled at the volumes that sat on the shelves. Some were so old that their spines were cracked and their pages yellowed. Their apparent fragility implied that they must be handled with utmost care.

The grounds of the property were modest, but the surrounding countryside held miles of woodlands and fields. On the grounds themselves was a wide field for keeping horses, as well as an airy stable. A smaller structure that served as a staff's quarters lay a small distance away from the main building. At half an hour's journey away from London, the house was distant enough from the city that it offered a quiet calm. It was near a couple of smaller villages, but just far enough to ensure their privacy.

Until the renovation was complete, Erik and Christine would live in a hotel in the city. Unlike the small inns they had stayed in throughout their journey from France, this one was much grander and luxuriant. Erik was a wealthy man – perhaps even more affluent than the de Chagnys. The high-end accommodation was by no means unaffordable.

A few nights after their arrival in London, Christine and Erik went out for dinner at a costly restaurant. Christine's hand on Erik's arm, they looked like any other married couple out for the night.

It was difficult to imagine that a creature, a child –  _his_  child – was now stirring in her. Christine was ecstatic about it, in the fashion that was truly her. She was always devoted and passionate to the things she loved, and Erik could not imagine a world where she would not love her unborn child. She had wanted to be a mother, and Erik was happy that he could grant her that wish. And as much as he tried to deny it, he, too, was excited for the imminent arrival of their baby, the fruit of their love.

But his worries outweighed his joy by far. He knew as well as Christine that the timing for her pregnancy was less than ideal. They were not legally married yet. Sworn their love again and again, yes; but marriage, with a wedding ceremony and vows and the exchange of rings that proved their bond to each other, was yet to come. The prospect of parenthood had always been at a safe, unreachable distance. He had never before contemplated the idea of himself as a father. He would be content forever to simply have Christine.

Children was something he stayed away from as a general rule, with the then ten-year-old Christine being the obvious exception to that. He was a destructive force, breaking and hurting anything and anyone he touched. Who knew how much damage he could cause to a helpless, trusting child? He did not know how to love them, or to care for them, or to protect them. But what worried him even more so than what he could not give to his child was what he may give to them. His deformity. There was always the chance that his birth defect would be passed on. For a child as deformed as he was, the chances of surviving past infancy were incredibly slim. Watching her baby die soon after birth would break Christine. And he feared that it would break him.

Presently, he and Christine had barely settled into a table near the back of the restaurant when a man in his mid fifties approached them. His hair, light brown in color and greying at the roots, was styled in a slightly out dated way, something that would have been fashionable maybe half a decade earlier. His eyes twinkled in a lightly tanned face, behind gold-rimmed glasses. Overall he was mediocrely handsome, in a plain, unmemorable way.

"Erik Destler?" The surprise in his voice was evident.

"Flavio Morino," Erik stood, clapping the older man on the shoulder. He spoke in flawless Italian: "Allow me to introduce my fiancée, Christine Daae."

"Daae... the girl who caused quite a scandal in Paris?" Despite his words, Flavio's smile was warm and genuine, as though he approved of her actions. He

took her hand in his and kissed its back. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame."

"The pleasure is mine." Christine replied with easy grace. Her Italian was fluent, much to her pride. She was glad that Erik had taught her several Italian operas. At the time she had hated learning a new language, but now it was definitely proving to be useful.

Flavio sat into a chair by Erik's side, despite the fact that he had not been invited to join them. He earned a glare from Erik, who moved closer to Christine in an almost protective manner.

"I met Flavio in Rome, twenty odd years ago," Erik explained to Christine. "I was young, perhaps not yet twenty. He was a traveling doctor, on his way home to Venice, and I accompanied him. He is one of the few men in the world who do not judge me for how I look." In his eyes was the rare look of admiration and genuine fondness.

"As a doctor I have seen a lot. Erik is not the only one who suffers from unfortunate defections since birth." Flavio shrugged in nonchalance. Christine could understand Erik's respect for him. Flavio did not judge him by the face that he had been born with, and that alone merited respect and admiration.

"So, Flavio," Erik took the chance of the other man's silence to change the topic. "Anyone important on your life?"

"Not a  _woman_ , if that is what you're implying." Flavio muttered almost condescendingly. "You know that I have vowed never to lose myself like that. But I do have an apprentice, Edward. He's been with me since he was ten. He  _is_ useful, I suppose." Flavio sipped his wine and studied the dark red liquid. "So Paris is where you chose to stay? And no word from you at all, all those years!"

"I have written you," Erik protested.

"Oh yes, of course you have – for no longer than the first six months!" Flavio retorted. "Then you abandoned the letters; I supposed you must have moved away, because staying in one place was never quite very you. You are quite often taken prey by wanderlust."

"I was distracted," Erik said defensively.

"You're always distracted."

"I took on a protégée and was busy fulfilling my role as a teacher."

"You never had the patience to teach," Flavio raised an eyebrow in semi-disbelief.

Erik simply shrugged. "She was talented and obedient and quick to learn." He put an arm around Christine's waist. "The best student I could have asked for." Her cheeks reddened at his compliment.

" _Oh_ ," Flavio's eyes widened in understanding. "Then it's no wonder that Mademoiselle Daae has the voice of an angel."

"My greatest creation," His pride was evident.

"Any more surprises, Erik?" Flavio asked. Erik shrugged nonchalantly. "In that case I don't suppose that you have anything to do with that whole Opera Ghost business, then?"

"You say that like you've already decided that it's my fault the Opera Garnier was haunted."

"With you being in the same city? The chances of you having nothing to do with it are incredibly slim, you must admit." A smirk formed on the older man's face.

"A man has to earn his living somehow, doesn't he?" A devious light glinted in Erik's golden eyes.

"Of course, and terrorizing opera house managers is just another respectable profession," Flavio remarked. "Attractive to the ladies, no?" He tipped his head towards Christine."

"We wouldn't have met otherwise," Christine argued. "He taught me to sing while I was only a ballet girl at the opera. He gave me my voice and helped me to remember my love for music."

"Well, I never thought that there would be a woman who would allow herself to marry him."

"People are superficial; I've learned that appearances can be deceiving," She answered with easy grace.

"What about all that he has done?" Flavio prompted. An ominous shadow descended over his face. "Do you know what his hands are capable of? What blood they have spilt, how they have caused pain as willingly as they have given you pleasure?"

"Yes." Christine answered, her voice taking on a haughty edge. She felt the pressure of Erik's hand on the small of her back. "I also know that they are capable of writing the most beautiful pieces of music, that could only be the creation of an angel."

Flavio leaned back, his demeanor suddenly becoming relaxed. The sinister glower was gone without a trace. "You've found yourself a perfect girl, Destler." He commented lightly. "How on earth did you manage to woo her?"

"He didn't 'woo' me; I've simply always loved him," She answered coolly, her head held high. Erik's hand brushed hers lightly and she looked up at him to meet his eyes of molten gold. Pride and gratitude sparkled in their depths. Unprepared for the intensity of emotion in his eyes, Christine's gaze dropped to their joint hands for a moment, and almost immediately raised again to lock with his eyes.  _I know_. She let a brief smile flicker onto her lips. He returned one of his own.

Flavio was studying at the pair with interest. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle Daae, but are you pregnant?"

She felt her cheeks heat up. Erik answered before she could speak. "You know better than to ask personal questions like that. That was exceptionally rude, even from you." He growled protectively. Christine could sense the Opera Ghost simmering just under the surface.

The other man shrugged, not intimidated in the slightest. "I'm a doctor, Erik. I know the signs of pregnancy."

"Then there was no need to ask, was there?" Erik's eyes were narrowing into dangerous golden slits, his voice a threatening hiss. He looked uncannily like a tiger, crouched and ready to defend himself against an attacker.

"Knowing you, she probably hasn't seen a doctor yet; she needs medical attention, and you know it."

"I would ask for your  _medical advice_  when I need it," angry sarcasm laced every word.

"Is that why you're marrying her? Because she's carrying your spawn?" Contempt filled Flavio's voice. "I'm not surprised; you never take responsibility until it's forced on you."

"Erik's been planning our wedding for a long time; my pregnancy has nothing to do with it." Christine butted in firmly, her eyes blazing with cold fire.

"Christine –" Erik began.

"Don't you  _dare_ tell me to stay out of this; it's my fiancé he's insulting," She rounded on him fiercely.

Flavor inclined his head. "In that case, my apologies." But his eyes suggested that he felt differently.

"Apology accepted." Christine replied coldly.

To Christine's surprise, her outburst to Flavio's improper question was not followed by an awkward, icy silence. Both men appeared to be unfazed by the incident, as though it were a common occurrence. It was obvious that the friendship between these two men, despite Erik's reluctance to give it the name, was strong and close.

Erik even inquired about Flavio's romantic pursuits. "Did you court anyone after that girl from Florence – Gianna, was it not?"

Flavio's eyes lit up in anger. "Court her I did, despite my family's disapproval. You know that I come from a prestigious and well-known family, they couldn't believe that I wanted to marry a low-born girl. They threatened to disown me if I insisted on marrying Gianna, but I wouldn't call off our engagement because I was so blinded by  _love_." He spat the word out with contempt. "They disowned me, and I worked hard to make my living as a doctor, despite my lack of experience and my meager pay, I gave everything I had to provide for her. I bought her everything she wanted - jewelry, dresses, any desire, however expensive, was given to her.

"And then, a few short days before the wedding – and it was to be a huge, elaborate, magnificent wedding! – she left me, without so much as an explanation or a goodbye. I had already paid for all the expenses, and I was broke from supporting her extravagant lifestyle.

"She just left me, ran off with a man she barely knew. He was rich, I do not doubt it, because Gianna had always cared for materialistic things. It was because of her poor background. She had spent the majority of her life seeing expensive things, and could only admire them from afar because she could not afford them. I sometimes believe that the only reason she even allowed me to court her was because of my family's money. She knew that I would spend everything I had on her, so she took advantage of that.

"I gave up everything for her – my family, my money, my entire inheritance. And she left me with nothing. I have sworn off love, because it had brought me nothing but despair." His eyes were stony with hatred for the woman who had made him a blind fool in his love for her. "I will not love again, because I have learned my lesson. Love is a hopeless pursuit, but it makes us mad with it. The only way I can keep my head clear is if I never love again."

Erik nodded, his expression as unreadable as ever. Christine slipped her hand, wanting to feel his fingers entwine with hers as a promise that he would not give up on love. The gentle pressure which she felt in return was a reassurance that he believed love was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this chapter was a bit dull. But remember, the absence of the light is a necessary part. And yes, that IS a lyric from 93 Million Miles by Jason Mraz. This is a bit of a filler chapter, but I PROMISE that it is absolutely necessary to the story later on!
> 
> Also, the next chapter will be primarily fluff, to make up for the dullness of this one.


	11. This Undying Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

_May 1882_

After dinner with Flavio, Erik and Christine made their way down streets lined with closed shops. The narrow streets were illuminated by the foggy light of gas lamps.

Christine was suddenly enveloped in a tight hug by Erik's arms, wiry but strong. "I'm so proud of you." Her arms snaked around his waist, returning the unexpected embrace. "I'm so proud of you," Erik's velvety voice murmured in her ear. "You were so strong towards Flavio."

She chuckled, tilting her head back so that their noses brushed. "I learned from the best."

He echoed her laugh with one of his own. "Yes, you did." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She smelled his musky scent as he exhaled. She stood on tiptoe, presenting him with a brief, fleeting kiss. He groaned as she pulled away too soon. "Control yourself, Erik," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Chuckling, he laced his fingers with hers and continued down the path. "By the way, when you snapped at me…" She looked up him with dread. He smiled, slightly amused at her pout. "I was just going to tell you that Flavio never watches his mouth. The great fool bursts out the first thing that comes to mind. He hardly means what he says."

"Oh…" She bit her lip sheepishly. "It's just that you're so protective of me, I can't help it that I'm protective of you, too. Back at the opera house, when they were talking about you, saying that you're a demon, evil incarnate, a madman… I wanted nothing more than to disappear, to have nothing to do with them whatsoever." She said with undiluted regret and pent up frustration. Erik was silent, but his eyes communicated his admiration and gratitude.

As soon as she stepped into their hotel room, Christine flopped unceremoniously onto the double bed. "My feet hurt so much," she complained as she kicked off her shoes. Bringing her feet up to the bed, she rubbed her increasingly sore ankles.

"Sit back against the headboard." Erik instructed, and she obliged, stretching her legs out. He took an ankle in each hand and began to massage them deftly with his skillful fingers. She groaned in pleasure as the stiff muscles loosened up.

"Do you think we'll be having a son or a daughter?" Erik approached the subject timidly.

Christine's answer was immediate: "A son."

"How are you so certain?" Erik retorted lightly.

"Woman's instinct, perhaps?" She chuckled. "I don't know. Perhaps…" A pink blush crept involuntarily onto her cheeks. "I should like to name a boy Gustave, after my father. Gustave Erik Destler." She said shyly, feeling foolish to voice her thoughts so. She sighed as Erik deftly eased the pressure in her swelling feet. "You are a godsend, Erik. Who knew it was this much work to carry a child?" He was silent, his forehead creased forebodingly.

"Erik?" She inquired warily. He lifted his eyes, looking expectantly at her. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," He sighed. His golden eyes were filled with self-reproach. "That my baby is causing you this pain."

"Its not your fault." Christine rolled her eyes at his typical guilt over something out of his control. "My mother had a difficult pregnancy with me. We have the same build; she was too small and slight to carry a child properly." As soon as she said the words she regretted them. Comparing herself to her mother, who died in childbirth, would do nothing to ease Erik's guilt or worry.

The massaging ceased. He was suddenly on the bed with her. "You're not her, Christine." He mumbled into the sea of her curls. "You're stronger than she was. You  _will_ survive childbirth." He was trying to reassure himself as much as her. His arms were desperate, as though he could physically hold her to this life. She eagerly accepted his possessive arms.

She was not blind or ignorant to the truth, to that dreadful possibility. She simply didn't want to face the fact that, like her mother before her, the birth of her child may be synonymous with her own death. She wrapped her willowy arms loosely around Erik's lean torso, taking comfort from his touch, his presence. "That won't happen to me," She vowed, trying to sound convincing.

"You can't promise that," He whispered. "You don't know what's going to happen." He pressed his lips to her forehead.

Christine savored the feeling of his lingering kiss on her skin. After a few moments of silence, she asked: "Am I your best friend, just as you are mine?"

"Of course, my angel." Erik's reply was sincere, though tinged with confusion.

"Then can you promise me the honesty that comes with friendship?"

Erik took a deep breath, mentally weighing the consequences of this decision. Christine pressed on. "You don't have to lie to me to protect me. I'm strong enough –  _old_  enough – to know the truth."

Another deep breath. "I will never lie to you again." It was a promise.

"Then can you tell me, truthfully, whether you want this child or not?" Christine's grey eyes, enchanting and imploring, stared into his from her open, vulnerable, painfully  _young_ face.

"Yes, Christine." Erik answered truthfully. "I want a child that we have created out of love. But I'm also terrified." He admitted in a fearful whisper. "I'm afraid of losing you. It won't be fair if you weren't here to witness our child's life. Childbirth has always been a serious risk in the health and longevity of women. What would I do – what would I do if you died…?"

He had never been so open to her, not when dealing with his fears and his weaknesses. His honesty warmed her to the heart. Touched by his heartfelt response, she felt unexpected tears prick her eyes

"What's wrong?" He looked at her, golden eyes filled with worry. She turned, curling into his embrace, tightening her hold on him. "What have I done to make you so sad?" He murmured in self-reproach, stroking her curls helplessly.

"I'm not sad," She protested weakly. "I'm happy." She clarified with a watery smile.

"The thought of your death, and the suffering that it would cause me – that amuses you?" Erik asked incredulously, only half joking. He waited in a confused silence for her to elaborate. When it was clear that she wouldn't, he just held her, waiting for her tears to subside, rocking her gently.

"I'm sorry," She sniffed, a few tears still escaping from her. "I just – I can't control it…"

"It's your hormones." He murmured. "For the baby." He rubbed her back, an unconscious movement. It was soothing, and she relaxed into his embrace.

"I'm sorry," She whispered again. Teardrops clung to her lashes like dew on a misty morning.

"And I repeat, not your fault," He wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, letting his fingers linger on her face.

"Thank you for being here." She whispered with a rueful smile. "For putting up with how temperamental I've been lately."

"It's because I love you." His gaze was incredibly tender as he looked down at the woman in his arms. She felt she could melt in those warm topaz eyes.

Her smile turned warm as she returned that loving look. "I know." She answered softly. "Thank you for being in love with me, and all that it entails." Her forehead crinkled. "What Flavio said about Gianna, and about love…"

Erik sighed for his friend's renouncement of love. "He really did love Gianna. He was only a boy, he naively gave his whole heart with no restraint. His family was against their marriage. He literally gave everything to that woman, but in the end she had lied to him, manipulated his emotions."

"I understand, and sympathize. But how can you give up on love?" Christine met Erik's eyes with a troubled gaze. She was a romantic at heart; she believed in happy endings. It was frightening and unnerving to have someone completely deride her ideals and beliefs.

Erik shook his head. "You haven't been there; you wouldn't understand."

"Try to explain." She pressed.

"When you've been hurt by love, you instinctively want to protect yourself from further harm. The only way to stop yourself from falling again is to completely reject love." Erik's words were met with a silence. He looked down at Christine to see a distressed expression on her face. "Was is it?" He asked softly.

"Was this how you felt?" She asked guiltily. "When I left."

He was taken aback for a moment. "Yes." He answered slowly. "But also no." He added. "When I first fell in love with you, I knew that you would be my only. When you left…" A chill ran down his spine involuntarily at the memory of that dark period. The only light in his life had disappeared, and he was thrown back to the darkness in which he came from. But like the prisoners in Plato's cave, once he had glimpsed the light, it was impossible to be content with darkness. He had been blinded – whether by the light or by darkness, he did not know.

Feeling the fearful shiver that possessed him for a moment, Christine pressed closer to him, wrapping her arms securely around him.

"I tried to forget about you," Erik continued. "I tried to stop loving you. But I couldn't. When Gianna left, Flavio hated her." Erik gave a dark chuckle. "Hating you, and renouncing love, would have been so much easier, so much less painful. But no; I loved you. So I hated that I loved, that I would put myself in such a vulnerable position, allow another person to have such a powerful hold over me. I knew that I would never love again. But all that while, I kept on loving you. Every beat of my heart was for you."

" _Love is a smoke made with the fumes of sighs_ ," Christine quoted in a whisper. " _A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet_." She closed her eyes and kissed the hollow at the base of Erik's throat. She heard his soft sigh of contentment, felt his throat relax at the touch of her lips.

"I'm sorry for hurting you." She promised to herself that as long as she lived, she would never hurt him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you liked that fluff, cause I did. Which is why the next chapter will be the wedding chapter (YAY! :D)


	12. I Have Died Everyday Waiting For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: It's fairly obvious that I'm nowhere near as good a writer as Kay is, nowhere near as old as Leroux, nowhere near as talented as ALW.
> 
> Also, the chapter title is from the song "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri, simply because I had it in mind while writing this chapter.

_May 1882_

"I want my dress to flow behind me, and a dozen bridesmaids to carry the train!" A six-year-old Christine gushed. She twirled around, her blue dress swirling around her. Her curls, laden with white flowers, fanned around her like a halo.

"A dozen, Little Lotte?" Raoul de Chagny laughed, taking enjoyment from humouring the younger girl. He was an extremely handsome boy, with his blond hair that hung in his baby blue eyes, and the fair complexion that was ever so lightly tanned from time spent in the sun. At the naïve age of seven, he was yet too young to recognize his parents' and brother's disdain for his befriending a simple violinist's daughter.

"A dozen!" She giggled. Her cheeks flushed an adorable pink. "And Papa would play the violin." She smiled, dimpling with all the fresh prettiness of a wildflower.

"And who would be the one waiting at the alter?" Even though he knew the answer, Raoul couldn't help but ask.

"You, Raoul." Christine answered bashfully. "You're the knight in shining armour."

When Christine was a child, living with her father by the sea, she always thought that she would have a big white wedding, and Raoul would be the one she married. The prince of her fairy tales come to life.

How different reality was proving to be! Today, she didn't walk down the aisle with pink tulips and carnations. Instead she clutched a white roses. A simple and elegant dress replaced the elaborate gown of frills and lace in her childhood daydreams.

Today, there was no ceremonious march down the aisle, no father giving her hand to her husband-to-be, no handsome prince waiting at the alter, no army of bridesmaids trailing behind her.

No, it was just her, and Erik. Her Angel of Music.

Erik tenderly took her hands in his gloved ones, his eyes shining with unmasked love. She fought the lump in her throat and the pricking behind her eyes, trying to refrain from crying. Christine barely registered that Erik had started to recite the vows.

"I, Erik Destler, take you, Christine Daae, to be my lawfully wedded wife,"  _his real, living bride!_ "To have and to hold,"  _feeling Christine's soft body curled next to his that first night together._ "From this day forward,"  _having the pleasure, the privilege, of holding her every night from now on._ "For better, for worse,"  _although she had broken both their hearts over and over, she had returned to him in the end._ "For richer, for poorer,"  _he would give her no less than what she deserved._  "In sickness and in health," _the adorable blush that painted her ivory skin pink._  "Until death do us part."  _The corpse who fell in love with the immortal angel._

Erik finished, and Christine repeated the vows. She had made them time and time again these past three months, in one form or another. But this time, there would be no backward glances, no chance to go back on her word. This time, her words would bind her life to his forever.

"I, Christine Daae, take you, Erik Destler, to be my lawfully wedded husband,"  _how had she been blind for so long before admitting to her heart?_ "To have and to hold,"  _his strong arms, her protection and her strength._  "From this day forward,"  _waking up to his delicate kiss every morning._ "For better, for worse,"  _the red rose that would inevitably await her after every performance._  "For richer, for poorer,"  _gone was the materialistic child who had fallen in love with a boy's beauty and wealth._  "In sickness and in health," _his concern in equal measures of strict instruction and tender care._  "Until death do us part."  _His real, living bride!_

Rings were exchanged, sealing their fate, marking them as each other's.

With his musician's hands, Erik lifted the thin veil and laid it over the back of her head, revealing her beautiful features. His kiss was so soft, so loving.

As soon as the ceremony was over, he led her out of the small church. The priest asked no questions, taking care to keep his eyes off the gentle curve of the young woman's stomach; many who had a whirlwind courtship and a spur-of-the-moment wedding came to this chapel, especially those who valued their anonymity and privacy. He knew better than to pry, especially with the handsome sum he had been paid.

Once they were out in the street, in the cool evening air, Christine was swept into Erik's arms once more. He kissed her again, passionately this time. His arms were around her as though he would not let her go for all the world, and she clutched his lapels with the same desire. She ended their heated kisses with a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. "Let's go home," She whispered in his ear with thinly veiled impatience. He met her sultry gaze and grinned in anticipation for their long-awaited wedding night.

 

* * *

 

It was through the large mahogany front doors of their new house that Erik carried his bride. Christine's mouth was on his in one long kiss, her arms wrapped around his neck. In the bedroom, he finally set her down on the four-poster bed. They paused their heated kisses; as soon as their eyes met their lust was replaced by something softer, gentler, and yet more potent. Christine slowly stood before her new husband. He swallowed nervously. Although they had shared intimacies before, three months ago, it had happened in a moment of passion. This, their wedding night, would be different.

Without breaking their gaze, Christine reached slowly behind her back and unhooked the clasps of her dress. The bodice immediately loosened. Erik tentatively placed his hands on her shoulders. She swallowed. The awkwardness was overwhelming. His fingers found the shoulder straps, and his eyebrows rose by a fraction:  _is this alright?_  She gave him a little encouraging smile, trying to suppress her anxiety. With all the shyness of a boy, he slipped the sleeves down her arms and the gown fell around her feet in voluminous waves of fabric. She was wearing only her undergarments, pure white against her creamy skin.

Erik's gaze turned reprimanding when he saw the corset. With a rueful half-smile, Christine reached behind her once again to undo the strings of her corset. Finding that she could not unlace it as easily as she did the dress, she wrinkled her forehead in frustration.

He smirked, amused by her adorable pout, and motioned with his finger for her to turn around. She did so silently, presenting him with her back. He unlaced her corset with gentleness, coaxing the strings out from their tight laces and letting the garment expand naturally from its tight binding. "Never wear a corset again," he whispered in that velvety, ethereal voice. "Do you know what this can do to your ribs and lungs? Not to mention the baby."

"I wanted to look my best for our wedding," she returned feebly. The reason, which was perfectly rational in her mind, now sounded pathetic even to herself.

He loosened the final string, letting the corset rest loosely around her torso. With the tips of his fingers, he touched her opposite cheek, beckoning her to turn. She did; her face first to meet his gaze, rosy lips slightly parted. "Corset or not, you will always be the most beautiful woman in a room."

"Then you look every inch my partner," She answered boldly, gripping one corner of his mask and pulling it up. An adoring look softened her features as she took in his deformity with a newly gained right to examine it. Maskless before her, with her eyes exploring that previously unknown terrain, he felt as though he were naked. Every indent and bulge; every unnatural twist; every grotesque detail illuminated in the candlelight. He felt completely defenseless and vulnerable.

And then, miraculously, she smiled. She reached up and cupped his cheek in her palm. She stood on her tiptoes, stretching to her full height to kiss him on the lips. It was slow and lingering, but both of them were eager to complete the ritual that would forever seal the bond that made them husband and wife.

They made music that night: amorous, passionate arias of love and lust, unaccompanied by instruments save each other's voice. Their love was a heavenly composition, and the violin and the cello played identical melodies, starting and ending in harmony, so that it was impossible to tell that they were two separate instruments. Despite their previous experience, their coupling now was like nothing they had ever felt before. It was an all-consuming fire of lust, but also a deep, gentle tide of love. There was no hurry, no rush to end the rolling emotions. They had all the time in the world to savor the moment.

And after that burning desire; bliss. Pure, eternal bliss.

They lay in each other's embrace, exchanging drunken whispers of  _I love you_. Christine's ear was against Erik's heart, and she savoured the sound of the steady rhythm that beat purely for her. She trailed her fingers over his face, over both the disfigured and smooth sides. With her hand on his mangled right cheek, she said, "You're so beautiful."

He froze under her. "Erik?" She propped herself up on her elbows, looking down at him.

"No one's ever said that." His voice was filled with disbelief. "I've been described by many words, but 'beautiful' is never one of them."

"I have learned to see past the surface, to see the beauty underneath."

He cupped her jaw to bring her face down to the level of his face. He presented her with the most delicate of kisses, brief as the flutter of a faerie's wing. " _Christine, I love you."_ He sang those familiar words.

She whispered the same back to her new husband, but exhaustion overcame her mid-sentence. She yawned widely, causing Erik to chuckle. His voice had never sounded as warm or rich as it did in that moment. He kissed her temple as she settled back on his chest. "Angels need their beauty sleep." He teased softly. Lying in his warm arms, she knew that this was where she was destined to rest.

 

* * *

 

Morning came with the soft spatter of rain, a weak gray light filtering into the room through the bay windows. Erik looked lovingly at the woman in his arms. Like he had on their first morning together, he marveled at the way her skin shone like the morning light, how she was truly an angel. Unable to help himself, he pressed a kiss to her temple, just as he did before she fell asleep.

She stirred in his arms and blinked sleepily. "Hey," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep. Her smile lit up the room. Slightly crooked to one side, it was the brightest light he had ever seen. "Stop staring at me like that." Her smile widened self-consciously.

"It's because you're so beautiful," he answered automatically. This morning he seemed to be lighter and more carefree, finally able to his burden of darkness and destruction behind him. "Can I ask something of you?" He asked more seriously as he entwined his hand with hers, running his thumb over her wedding ring.

"Anything," she replied without a moment's hesitation.

He slipped a finger under her chin, tilting her face to meet his gaze. "I want to ask you, my wife –" he relished the feeling of that statement on his tongue. Christine was not only his pupil, his ingénue, but also his  _wife_. "To be my partner. I don't want to be your master, I don't want you to follow me blindly."

She was quiet for a moment; in the watery morning light, her pensive eyes were more blue than grey. "Thank you," she finally said, her voice sincere and even. " I'm honored and grateful that you would want me to be more than your wife, to be your friend and equal as well." She tucked an unruly strand of hair behind her ear; it escaped again. "I did not expect you to offer me this. I don't think that many men would extend their respect to their wives in this way."

"I'm not… normal." He cringed, but chose that word for lack of a better one.

"That's why I love you," she replied. "I hope that you don't mind me asking, as a  _friend_ ," she added cautiously. She kept her gaze on her hands as she traced the scars on his chest, deliberately avoiding his gaze. He nodded, encouraging her to go on, hoping that she would look him in the eye; of course she refused to. "Why don't you want me, your wife, to be inferior? You would be my master, like you used to. You would be in control, and I would be content to follow you. I certainly expected to do so." She admitted frankly.

He curled a strand of her hair around a finger. "You were not made to submit; I've learned that the hard way. You are not a mindless doll. I don't want an endlessly devoting and obedient wife. I don't want to change who you are."

By her smile, he knew that she understood exactly.

"That boy…" she knew right away, from his reluctant tone, that he was talking about Raoul. He hadn't wanted to bring up that fop on their wedding morning, but he felt that he had to say this. "He would have changed you. You would be forced to change into one of those trophy wives – submissive and obedient and painfully boring. You would lose who you are, lose this beautiful soul who is Christine."

"Don't forget," Christine replied, lifting her head proudly. Her curls bounced at the movement. "That they haven't yet changed me. If I didn't have a mind of my own I would be, in your words, a  _trophy wife_  by now, instead of in London with you. Don't forget that it was  _I_  who snuck out of the de Chagny estate that night to find you. It was I who asked to follow anywhere you go."

He framed her face in his elegant hands. "It would bore me to the point of insanity if you were the perfect, obedient wife."

"How are you so certain that you don't want that?" She asked coyly. "Your shy, modest little wife, who you take out on your arm for walks on Sundays, who cooks your dinner every night when you come home?"

"You, cook dinner?" Erik snorted as he tried – in vain – to control his laughter. Christine could feel his sides heaving as he tried to stop laughing, the deep, rich sound finding its way up from the depths of his torso. Christine found herself joining in this warm, refreshing sound with her bell-like tinkle of laughter. Once his laughter had somewhat subsided, he looked at her with feline eyes that twinkled merrily. "Christine, when was the last time you actually cooked? Successfully?"

She blushed. "Hush, stop teasing me!"

"Make me," he challenged her.

In reply, she kissed him deeply, her hands cupping his jaw and trailing down to his shoulders. She pulled back and said, "Shall I continue?"

Breathily he said, "yes, please, madame," and kissed her again. Beneath his lips, he felt her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am fully aware that a Victorian lady's undergarments consist of MUCH more than a corset. I simply did not want to describe their complete removal, due the rating of this story, and the fact that it would take away the tension of the moment. Seriously, do you KNOW how many layers they have to wear?


	13. Brewing Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not Leroux, not Kay, not ALW, I don't own Erik or Christine or Raoul or Phantom or anything that is recognizable.

_June 1882_

Christine woke in an empty bed. A glance at the clock told her that she had been sleeping for close to twelve hours. Outside the large windows, she saw an angry grey sky, pelting the earth with large raindrops. A fierce gale whipped the trees around in a frenzied dance. The faint roar of the storm was a subtle yet potent reminder of nature's power.

Fascinated by power, as she always was, Christine rose from the bed and, barefoot, padded across the carpet and to the window. She sat on the sofa at the bay windows and curled her legs under her so she could turn around to look outside. She could see Iago's paddock, but the stallion himself was out of sight. Erik had probably settled him into the stables to take shelter.

Christine watched the storm for a few moments, captivated by its raw strength. Although Man felt all-powerful, nature would, every so often, remind mankind who came first – nature or civilization. The storm was dangerous and unpredictable, something entirely feral and ungoverned by human laws and social norms. It was this unconstrained freedom that mesmerized her.

This was one of the reasons she loved Erik – rebellious against the strict rules and expectations of society, indifferent to the customs that governed the rest of their culture. When she was with him, she didn't have to care about how she would be viewed, or whether her actions or words would be deemed improper. When she was with Erik, she could be herself.

Presently, she watched a figure make his way slowly through the paddock, fighting against the wind and rain. He was tall and lean, the ends of his black coat flapping madly. His arms were curled in front of his chest. He appeared to be cradling something into the shelter of his torso, completely hidden by his coat and his protective arms. Christine leapt off the sofa and dashed downstairs to meet her husband.

Erik opened the door to see his wife running down the stairs, still barefoot, hair tousled. She had obviously just gotten out of bed. With a bright smile on her flushed face, she looked so youthful and filled with life. Erik felt a surge of youth return to his aging body just by seeing her. As always, his eyes drifted to the slow curve of her abdomen, which was starting to become evident, but still concealed by the loose folds of her nightgown.

"What's that?" Christine asked in her clear soprano voice. She moved closer to peer at the grey bundle of fur cradled in his large hands. The tiny kitten looked up at her pitifully with wide golden eyes. Her face softened. "Ohh…" She breathed.

"I found him in the stable," Erik explained. "Look how thin he is; I don't think he's had a meal in days. His mother probably got killed by one of the dogs in the villages."

"Poor thing," Christine whispered, eyes wide, brows drawn up in sympathy.

"Can you get some old cloth, a box, anything – to make a bed for him?" Erik said. "I'll see if we have any food for him."

Fifteen minutes later, the kitten had polished off a bit of chicken and was licking his paws in satisfaction on the kitchen table. Christine watched him, her arms folded on the table, her chin resting on them. As she looked at the kitten, her expression was filled with motherly fondness. Erik was struck by how well this look suited her. For a moment, he was struck by the image of Christine gazing into a cradle with the same expression on her face. Her excitement as their infant babbled his incoherent first "mama". Her pride as a little boy –  _Gustave Destler_ – played a complicated melody on the piano with skill above his age. The forlorn look she would wear as their son hugged her goodbye. She would make a great mother…

He shook himself out of his fantasies and forced his mind to return to the kitten.

Presently, Christine reached out her hand to the kitten, who sniffed it cautiously, then rubbed his face along her skin. She stroked his head, and he purred in response. "You are planning to keep him, aren't you?" She asked Erik hopefully, looking at him with shining eyes that resembled those of a kitten herself.

"Of course," He answered. The delighted grin on her face told him that it was the right decision. "I like cats; there used to be a stray that I fed back in Paris."

Christine couldn't help but ask mischievously: "The infamous Phantom kept a pet?"

* * *

After penning a letter to the Girys, Christine joined Erik in the music room. He was seated at the piano, a pen in his hand as he hastily scribbled something onto a piece of paper. He then set it down and played a variation of the same melody. Knowing better than to disturb him from his music, Christine sat on the divan at the other end of the room. The book she had been reading yesterday was left there, and she flipped to the page she had bookmarked earlier.  _Beauty and the Beast_ was something Meg had been trying to get her to read for years, but she had never got around to it. Unsurprisingly, she had found a copy of it in the library in the de Chagny mansion during her engagement with Raoul. She had started it, but put it down when she realized the uncanny similarities it bore to her own experience.

Now, in her house in England, she had found a copy of the book again. When the previous owner passed away, some twenty years ago, his family took a few of his valuables and personal items. The rest of his property – some furniture, the grand piano (so out of tune that they didn't bother moving it), and a sizable library of old books, were sold along with the house. It was on one of the dusty shelves that a worn copy of  _Beauty and the Beast_ had caught Christine's eye. She flipped through each yellowed page with care, reaching the climax when Belle returned to the dying Beast to swear her love. She felt herself starting to get teary as the Beast transformed into a handsome prince, Belle's rightful partner. Finishing the book with that inevitable happily ever after, she closed it and held it in her lap for a moment, not bearing to put it down. She simply wanted to bathe in that warm afterglow of finishing a book, soaking up all the emotions.

"Your Beast is no prince; no kiss or declaration of love can change that." Erik's voice broke into her thoughts. Her head snapped up; she didn't realize that he had stopped playing and was looking at her.

"I know," she replied, getting up and sitting next to him on the piano bench. "But imagine – if you weren't born with this" – she ran her hand over his masked cheek – "would we ever have met?"

He took her hand. "I would find you," he said with simple conviction.

"But would you be my Maestro? Would you ever see me as more than a chorus girl?"  _And would you love me if you had other options?_

"'You have bewitched me, body and soul'," he quoted the line from her beloved book. "It is not possible for me to love any other." He kissed her forehead and turned his attention back to the piano. "I think it's about time you continued your lessons; you've hardly sang at all for months. You haven't had a lesson since before… since all that… happened in Paris."

Obediently, Christine stood. She knew better than to argue with Erik on matters concerning her training, and she did want to continue learning. Her warm-ups took somewhat longer than usual because of her lack of practice. "What do you want me to sing?" She asked when he deemed the warm-ups to be sufficient. "I know you like  _Faust_." She added.

"No; you will be singing one of my newer compositions," Erik answered, ruffling through the stacks of sheet music piled on the piano. He finally produced a single sheet, marked with his distinct, spidery scrawl. Christine could just make out the title:  _Once Upon Another Time._

Erik started playing the eight-bar introduction. Christine took the time to study the piece. It wasn't long, only a single sheet, double-sided. Erik's handwriting was spiky and hardly legible; fortunately she had had years of practice reading it.

"Christine!" The melodious sound of the piano stopped abruptly. "You missed your cue!"

"Sorry," she mumbled. Although he was her husband, Erik was no less firm and authoritative when he was her teacher.

"Try again!" He commanded. "And this time,  _concentrate_." She nodded meekly; this time diligently listening intently to his playing and successfully started singing.

" _Once upon another time –_ "

Erik cut her off. "Your voice went flat, try again. Remember, use your diaphragm."

She was clearly out of practice. They spent over an hour on the first verse, until she was pitch perfect.

" _Once upon another time_

_Our story had only begun_

_You chose to turn the page_

_And I made choices too."_

Erik stopped playing yet again. "What is this song about?"

"What?" Christine wrinkled her brow, failing to understand what he was asking.

Erik turned around on the piano bench so that he was facing her. "You heard the question: What is this song about?"

"The singer is regretting how she didn't love a man when she still had a chance to." She answered simply.

"So  _feel_ it." Her Maestro instructed. "Feel her longing, her regret. Feel her sorrow for losing something that could have been."

To imagine sadness and regret right now was impossible. Christine had been living in her little bubble of domestic bliss for the past few weeks. It was as though she and Erik were the only ones in the world who mattered; everyone else was just a blur of nameless faces. "I  _can't_!" She protested. "I can't feel it! All I can feel is contentment and love and happiness; I can't feel the sadness in this song!" She looked at the scrunched up wad of paper in her hands, the remnants of the beautiful, tragic melody. In frustration she threw it across the room.

"Christine!" Erik stood up abruptly. She was taken aback for a moment by the wrath of this dark angel who towered over her with his glowering golden eyes of judgment. "While you are my student, you will not deny a task like this. It is simple enough. You are a singer, are you not?" He said harshly. "So act like one! You are not some spoiled diva who sings in excellence when the whim takes her, then refuses to sing properly when she is not in the mood to do so. Did you think that because you now have talent and skill, that practice is no longer necessary? I expect nothing short of perfection from you. And to achieve perfection you must dedicate every ounce of your effort into this exercise."

"Do you think that I do not try?" She retorted. "That I am not singing well because  _I do not feel like it_? I honestly cannot make myself sing it well! I do try, but I cannot succeed. It is hardly my fault that you demand me to do something that is out of my ability."

"This is perfectly within your scope!" Erik snarled. "I know exactly what you are capable of, and this is certainly within your limits. You are acting like a spoiled child. Perhaps these few months of luxury have made you forget what it means to be a servant to music. You forget the dedication that your art requires!"

"You're being unreasonable!" She protested. She knew that Erik had a point, but she was unwilling to accept it.

" _I'm_  being unreasonable?" Disbelief flashed across Erik's face. "So now that I take on the role of teacher again, I'm suddenly a monster? Or had you simply forgotten about the monster that lurks inside the man?"

She was paralyzed for a moment by the unfairness of the accusation. It was a deeply injuring blow. "You know that's not true," She said, wounded and defensive.

"Perhaps it isn't so far from it," Erik hissed. This man was nothing like the patient husband she had known in the past months. This was the Phantom with his notorious temper.

"Believe what you want," she snapped. With that she turned on her heel and marched out of the music room in defiance.

"Christine Daae!" He spoke her maiden name sharply, halting her in her tracks. "You will  _not_  walk out of a lesson! Come back here; this lesson is not over yet." Erik turned back to the piano. He pushed his coat tails back and sat down on the piano bench.

Defiance still potent in her glare, Christine dragged her feet across the room to stand before the piano.

"We'll continue singing the piece until you meet your usual standard." Erik said impassively. But there was a threatening undercurrent to his voice.

Christine didn't speak. She was prepared to endure the rest of this lesson in agony. But she had not accounted that it would be literal. Pain suddenly shot through her abdomen. A soft gasp of pain came from her parted lips. Erik looked up in alarm, his golden eyes alight with genuine concern. Her eyes were widened, her brows drawn together in distress. Her hand was fisted on the three-month swell of her stomach, knuckles white from the tight grip. Erik clambered up, concern and fear written over his features. This was not the condemning Angel from mere moments ago. Christine gave another cry, her other hand grabbing at Erik to support herself. He put an arm around her waist, the other lifting her from under her knees.

The ground she had stood on was wet with blood.


	14. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom. I don't own Erik or Christine.

_June 1882_

The waiting was torturous. Erik knew that Flavio was a trusted and experienced doctor, and his apprentice, Edward, was just as reliable. But despite his logical mind, there are times when even a genius abandons reason. Erik was no stranger to these moments. One of the fields where Erik had little knowledge in was medicine. But even so, he knew that the trail of blood that led from the music room to their bedroom, and the way Christine cried out every so often, were all very, very bad signs.

Tempest, the grey kitten named for the storm he was found in, sensed his master's distress and wove around Erik's legs. He mewed and reached up to paw Erik, his yellow eyes wide with distress. But his efforts were ignored. Erik could not be comforted, not while the door to his bedroom remained closed, and the ominous ticking of the clock signified the passing seconds in which Christine's condition remained unknown.

 _What's the worse that could happen?_  He thought. Immediately, he realized that this was not a line of thought he wanted to go down in.

_My mother had a difficult pregnancy with me. We have the same build; she was too small and slight to carry a child properly._

What would become of him if Christine indeed followed her mother's fate? A life without Christine would be hell, even worse than those agonizing months when she had been with the Vicomte. Back then, at least she had been  _alive_. Erik had let her go on his own terms, and he had known that she would be happy. But if he lost her now… it would be a cruel trick of fate to take her when their life had just started.

No, he could not blame Fate for this. It was his own fault. He cursed himself and his wild temper. He could not hold himself back from an argument. He had been volatile and rude. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. Why couldn't he keep his calm? Why did he constantly let his temper get the best of him? He was no more than a beast, with his utter lack of control! He should not have provoked her so, especially knowing her delicate condition. Now, faced with the possibility of losing Christine, their argument seemed trivial. Who cared if she was spoiled and childish and flighty, as long as she was alive? Erik would gladly suffer all the curses and insults she would deal upon his face and his temper, if it meant that she could live. He wouldn't care whether she was at his side or in some other man's bed, so long as she was alive and healthy upon the face of the earth. There was no price he would not pay for her life.

Edward's British accent broke through his inner turmoil. "Monsieur Destler…?" The fourteen year old opened the door, poking out his head of thick ginger hair. His brown eyes were filled with sympathy and nervousness.

"Is she…" worry and fear choked the words choked in his throat. A part of him wanted to grab the boy by the shoulders and shake him. But the other part, the greater part, was almost paralyzed.

"Madame Destler is fine," the boy reassured him. "Weak and exhausted, but she will recover. But the child..." not daring the meet Erik's eyes, he looked away, cringing as though he feared that Erik would strike him. Once again, Erik's heart hammered like the hooves of a hundred horses.

Flavio Morino stepped out of the room and clapped the boy's shoulder. Edward looked up at him gratefully, spared of the trial of telling Erik. Flavio spoke calmly. "Erik, there was nothing I could do for the infant."

Erik grabbed the doctor by his lapels and shoved him against a wall. "Nothing?" He spat. " _Nothing_?! Are you not a doctor? Are you not supposed to save lives?"

Flavio pushed against the former Phantom in vain; Erik's anger lent him the power to hold the other man. "Christine was bleeding to her death! Are you telling me to abandon a young woman's life – your wife's life – to save a baby too young to survive? Even if I pulled him from the womb, he would not live. It's too early on in the pregnancy.""

Erik's hold slackened. Flavio pushed the younger man off him. Erik made no move to steady himself as he stumbled backwards. He barely heard Flavio's words, other than the crucial pronoun – "he". Christine was right; she had been carrying a boy. Their son. Gustave Destler. Erik felt a pressure atop his ribcage, crushing his heart and lungs, as though his chest had collapsed. Now that there was no promise, no more hope for a child, he stopped dreading its arrival. Instead he was mourning its loss, the loss of their future, the promise of new life, broken. "And Christine?" He dared to ask.

"She's fine now." Flavio assured him. "Distraught and in pain, but she'll recover soon enough. But it was incredibly close. Had I come a few hours later, she would be dead."

Erik pushed past him to open the door. Christine lay on their bed, looking impossibly frail. Those wide eyes, once so bright and spirited, were blank and lifeless. They were pools of pain, filled with both the physical suffering and the mental trauma of the miscarriage. It broke his heart to see her so weak and dejected. Her face was a worrying shade, so pale that it was almost gray. A mass of bloodied sheets was piled on the floor; Erik couldn't believe that all that blood was his Christine's. Dark red and ominous, it smelled of rust and death and made his stomach churn. They reminded him of a darker time, when bloodlust and violence was his purpose, when he was the bringer of death.  _Death._ Gustave's fate.

Christine turned her gaze to him. Was this the same girl who was once so lively and passionate? Her lifeless gaze was like an accusation, scorching his soul with their dead iciness, shattering the remnants of his heart into little pieces.

So he ran.

The world blurred around him. All that existed was the storm of emotion. Anger; grief; disbelief. And most of all, pain. He didn't know why, but each solid thump of his heart hurt to an inhuman degree, almost like they were footsteps towards death.

He collapsed to his knees in the middle of a large field. He gave a howl of agony, screaming his rage at the sky. The sound shattered the serenity. A few birds fled from the nearby trees with cries of alarm. He bellowed again and again, a bestial release of all the intense emotions. Erik was no stranger to suffering, but never before had he felt such sorrow for pain that wasn't his own.

Tears welled and overflowed from his eyes, seeping under his mask. He ripped it from his face and cursed it; cursed his face; cursed the gods; cursed cruel Fate; cursed the world.

The sky was mockingly free of clouds, and as dusk set in, the heavens were a beautiful sea of ultramarine and aqua streaked with violet. Bordering the horizon, stained by the setting sun, was a faint tint of rose. It was as though the gods themselves were celebrating Erik's loss with this beautiful evening.

Erik felt utterly powerless. His wife, his muse,  _his Christine_ , had almost died. Their son was dead before he even had a chance to live. And there was nothing Erik could do about it. He was helpless against the tragedies that rammed against him and Christine. There was nothing he could do now to ease her suffering, or to bring back their child.

He staggered to his feet and ran again. The world darkened around him. In the dim light that remained before nightfall, Erik found himself in the outskirts of a small town. A group of children, aged around seven or eight, were playing further down the road.

A middle-aged man, obviously drunk, stumbled out of a pub. His beard was matted and stained with the froth of cheap liquor. His face was haggard, his clothes dirty. He reeked repulsively of beer, vomit and body odor. Staggering along the road, the man grabbed a small, thin boy from the group. The child cried out in pain as the man dragged him down a secluded path.

Growling, the drunkard raised a fist and hit the boy. The child cried and cowered. "You ungrateful bastard," the man growled. "Eating off my table, sleeping in my house, wearing my clothes on your back. You're not even my own flesh and blood; if it wasn't for your mother I'd send you off to a workhouse."

"No, Jacob, please…" the abused boy squeaked fearfully, whimpering from the blows. "I'll be good, I promise. I'll work, I'll earn money. You can buy whatever you want... you can have as many drinks as you want. Please, not the workhouse!"

"What good are you? Just like your father." The man continued ramming his fists down on the boy's scrawny body. "Your mother did the smart thing for once; she married me. But she had to bring you along, you little brat."

Erik's vision swam red. He clenched his fists, trembling in anger. How dare this man abuse a child like that! The drunkard punched and kicked the boy, who curled his arms around himself in a fetal position. Erik wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the drunkard's throat and feel the life drain from him, execute the punishment for hurting an innocent child.

In a flash, Erik had pinned Jacob to the ground. His hands, deceptively slender, throttled that withered, stinking neck. His weight forcing the air from his lungs. Jacob struggled and gasped like a fish on a hook. Erik felt the sheer exhilaration, the raw power of having complete control over another life. As Jacob's strength slipped away, Erik's grew stronger.

The last thing Jacob saw was the dark avenging Angel.

His head rolled back as he lost consciousness. Realization of his actions hit Erik. He staggered back from the body in shock. Hiding in an alleyway, Erik watched as a villager found the body and screamed. He watched as the other villagers came running. He watched as the boy's mother – Jacob's wife – hugged her son tightly and inspected his wounds.

An older man, presumably a doctor, by the air of authority on him, pushed his way through the panicking crowd to kneel before Jacob. He pressed his fingers against the large man's throat. Erik held his breath. In moments, the doctor stood and addressed Jacob's wife. "He's alive,"

Erik let his breath out in relief. Had he been armed with the Punjab lasso, Jacob wouldn't have stood a chance. He would have been dead in seconds. "Since there are no visible wounds on his head, I would deduce that he's simply had too much to drink." The doctor bent to the little boy's level. "What happened here?" He asked in the kind yet stern tone that was used by so many doctors.

"An angel saved me," the child replied, all innocence.

"An  _angel_ , you say?" the doctor was incredulous.

The boy nodded fervently. "He was dressed all in black, and he moved so gracefully that he must have been floating on wings. He disappeared after he saved me."

There were murmurs among the crowd that Jacob has been punished by God's dark executioner. "Did you see his face?" the doctor asked. Erik tensed.

"No, sir." Erik let out a sigh of relief at the boy's answer. If the boy saw his face he would surely be called a demon from hell that had tried to murder a man in cold blood. He froze as the reality of it struck him – was that not what he had almost done? How could he let his control slip? He had resolved to be a new man, one worthy of Christine, but he had fallen into the same mistakes again! What would Christine think?

Christine! A look at the darkened sky told him that he had been gone for hours. And she would still be at home. What did she do, all alone, in her grief; in her pain; in her resentment towards him? Panic gripped Erik's heart in its jaws. For a moment he couldn't breathe.  _Please, don't let her do anything reckless..._

He fled the scene of the murder, running back towards his property. He burst through the doors in frenzy. Dashed up the stairs three at a time. Barged into the bedroom with his heart pounding and prepared for the worst.

She was lying there, pale as death, her eyes still blank. Tempest was curled next to her, and her hand was running along the kitten's soft fur. It physically hurt to see Christine like that, weak and lifeless. The frenzied man left, to be replaced by a sad, worried husband. "Christine..."

Two pairs of eyes turned to him; one set golden, the other grey.

"Erik." Her voice was raspy from crying, and as he neared he noticed the tear stains on her face, sticky, drying streams that clung to her skin.

"I'm sorry," He whispered, not daring to approach her. She would not want him to touch her; not with the hands of a murderer. But she held out her hand, reaching for him. Hesitant, Erik moved closer and slowly sat on the bed. He was careful not to initiate contact with her. Christine, though, took his hand. She ignored his sharp intake of breath.

"It's always been fight or flight for you, hasn't it?" The way she said it, it was more of a statement than a question. She knew him so well; had grown to know him so during these months together.

"I'm sorry for that. And also for what happened earlier." Their fight was a distant memory.

She shook her head. "I don't even remember what we were arguing about." She nestled her head on his lap, taking comfort from his quiet strength. He stroked her head, running his fingers through her curls. "Where were you?"

"I…" As much ad Erik trusted Christine, and wanted to be honest with her, his protectiveness was close to second nature. He didn't want her to know that he had almost murdered. Again.

"Is it something I don't want to know?" She gave him a knowing look that bordered on dreading. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Christine reached up and cupped the right side of his cheek. "Your mask is off," she noted.

"I almost killed a man."

Christine's breath caught in her throat. " _What?!_ " She whispered. "Erik,  _why?_ "

He shook his head helplessly. "He was beating this little boy, his stepson, and I couldn't stand how he was hurting a child so pure and beautiful…"

"So you killed him?" she was shocked; an unspoken accusation was written across her face.

"Almost." Erik said in instinctive defensiveness. "I couldn't stop; one moment he was beating the boy, the next my hands were around his neck."

"But you stopped." She fixed his face with her desperate eyes, begging him to tell her that he didn't give in to his rage.

"Yes."

She relaxed in relief. "And the boy?"

"He's safe, with his mother." Erik turned away and gave a dry chuckle. "He thought that he was saved by an angel. He could not have been more wrong."

"You love children," she whispered. If she had any tears left to cry, they would be gathering in the corners of her eyes. "Myself when my father died, and now this abused boy. You are an angel, Erik – an angel to children." She sighed heavily. She proved herself wrong as droplets ran down her cheeks once again. "You would have been the most amazing father."

Erik felt his own tears threatening to fall. He swallowed them, choking out his sentence. "We could have another…"

She shook her head, her expression darkening. "It's not the same." She said forlornly. Her voice caught in her throat as she cried. Sensing his owners' grief, Tempest leapt over Christine's torso, snuggling into the gap between Erik and Christine's bodies. He licked Christine's tearstained face and mewed in a kitten's concern. She managed a small, watery smile that failed to reach her eyes. "I know, you don't like it when I'm sad."

"I don't like it either." Erik ran a thumb along her cheek, catching those diamond-like teardrops. "Angels aren't meant to cry."

"Angels aren't meant to die either, Erik, but Gustave did." She reminded him. Her hands unconsciously slid to her stomach. There was no baby in her now. She remembered the agony, how hard she tried fighting to keep Gustave alive, to keep him in her. "It hurts," she whispered. He understood that she was referring to more than the physical pain.

"I know," he kissed the top of her head. "I wish I could take it away." She looked up at him with wide grey pools of sadness. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head, then stopped and looked up at him thoughtfully. "You could sing."

He opened his mouth and that angelic tenor floated out to meet her.

" _Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes_

_And save these questions for another day_

_I think I know what you've been asking me_

_I think you know what I've been trying to say_

_I promised I would never leave you_

_And you should always know_

_Wherever you may go_

_No matter where you are_

_I never will be far away._

  


_Goodnight my angel, now its time to sleep_

_And still so many things I want to say_

_Remember all the songs you sang for me_

_When we went sailing on an emerald bay_

_And like a boat out on the ocean_

_I'm rocking you to sleep_

_The water's dark and deep inside this ancient heart_

_You'll always be a part of me."_

It was the lullaby he had written for her when she was a child. The same song she had fallen asleep to every night, once upon an innocent time, when things had been so much simpler, when she was allowed to believe in angels, when his mere voice could soothe away every heartache. The same hypnotizing voice now calmed her. She allowed the notes of the melody to drift her away into slumber.

Erik cradled Christine's sleeping form in his lap. She looked so peaceful, though there was a certain tightness in her brow that hadn't been there in the past. Erik scratched Tempest's chin, earning a contended purr from the kitten. "Thank you for looking after her when I wasn't here," he said. The kitten blinked his yellow eyes at him and snuggled into Christine's side. Erik closed his own eyes. He might as well sleep, and take comfort from Christine's presence. He had not been there for her today, despite what he had once promised her. He vowed now that in the coming days, weeks, or even months that she needed to recover, he would be there by her side.

But he had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he would fail to keep that promise once again.


	15. Never Again

_July 1882_

For the next days and nights, Christine did little but sleep. Erik rarely left the room, taking up a place either by her bedside. She felt numb, a physical part of her literally ripped from her body. Over these few days she was plagued by countless nightmares, forgotten as soon as she woke, but left her frightened and hopeless, and she always woke screaming into her pillow. Erik would be there, pushing her tangled curls from her face, stroking her cheeks, whispering comforting words that they both knew were void of meaning. She clung to him as though he was her lifeline, as though he could save her from her dark subconscious that threatened to drown her in fear. He cradled her trembling form in his arms and kissed her forehead despite the sweat that clung to her in a sticky sheen.

"It was only a dream, it can't harm you when you're awake," Erik offered the same words he used to comfort her when she was a child who could not sleep from fear of the imaginary monsters in her dreams.

She shook her head in despair. "But when I wake, I am still living in a nightmare." Her hands crept down to her abdomen, still slightly rounded. She wished it would return to its former slimness, as though she had never been pregnant. Now, the remaining softness in it was a painful reminder of what she had lost.

"Maybe." Erik dared to voice. "Maybe this is a blessing in disguise."

" _What_?!"

"What if he would be like me?" Erik whispered, lowering his head in shame and self-loathing. "Maybe it's for the best, that he would never have to experience life as – as a  _freak_."

"I wouldn't have minded." A solitary tear slid down Christine's cheek. She had cried so much that she was surprised she still had tears left to cry. "I would have loved him all the same."

"Not everyone is like you, my sweet angel," he whispered sadly. "Not everyone can see the beauty underneath."

Her gaze softened as she saw the look of utter sadness on Erik's face. She cupped his mangled, deformed cheek. "We can."

He nodded, unable to speak for the lump that had formed in his throat. Breathing heavily, he leaned his forehead against hers, both of them fighting tears, mourning what they had lost before it was truly theirs.

Flavio Morino was one of the incredibly few men Erik trusted. They had met in Rome twenty years ago, and travelled together to Flavio's home in Venice. When they arrived, Erik had moved himself into Flavio's apartment, much to the Italian's annoyance. Their relationship was built on mutual trust, which Erik was now glad for, because for the first time in his life, he required the services of a doctor whom he could trust.

Flavio came to the house a week after the day of the miscarriage. "Are you still bleeding?" he asked as he pressed a stethoscope against Christine's chest. She shook her head. After the miscarriage a week ago, she had been bleeding onto her undergarments. The sight of blood made her sick, reminding her of that day when she had bled the life of her child.

"You're healing well," Flavio commented, watching his patient. She looked nothing like the spirited girl he had known briefly. There was a vacant look in her eyes, as though the life has left her and she was merely an empty shell. As a doctor, he knew that she was physically healthy and recovering well from the miscarriage. Her body worked mechanically – she ate; she slept; her heart beat. But inside she was hollow. Lifeless.

Flavio sighed and put away his equipment. He knew it was useless trying to get a response out of Christine. The mind needed time to heal, just as the body needed time to recover. "Well my instructions are the same as before – get plenty of rest," he said. "If you want my advice." His tone softened. "Try not to dwell on it too much."

She looked at him with a soulless gaze, her eyes lifeless voids. "Try not to dwell on it? You don't know what this feels like, to have something so dear torn away."

"I don't know what it feels like?" His eyes flashed in anger. "You think that I don't know what it feels like to lose someone dear?" His bitterness was sharp and striking as poison. Christine was suddenly reminded that this man was more than the kindly, solemn doctor he appeared to be. He was tormented with a past that he could not forget.

Nevertheless, she returned his furious gaze with a stony cold one, a stubborn refusal to apologize. Flavio's expression was just as hardened as hers. Pitiless. Condemning. Neither headstrong soul willing to admit defeat, Flavio turned and stalked out of the room.

Christine looked over the grounds from the library window. Everything appeared so painfully normal. Had it been only a week ago when she was living in bliss? Has it only been a week ago when she felt the faint fluttering of her baby within her? Barely a month had passed since the wedding. That peaceful, happy, hopeful period seemed like a millennia ago.

There were birds outside her window. One called, and its mate whistled an answering melody. She could see, in the distance, the road leading into London, where carts and horses passed every day. How could those people's lived still carry on like normal? It amazed her that the rest of the world could carry on undisturbed when her life has been shattered.

A tentative knock on her bedroom door disturbed her from her thoughts.  _Who could it be?_ She puzzled. It was neither Erik nor Flavio; Erik's knock was a quick series of taps, occasionally followed by her name. Flavio's knocks were heavier and spaced, and he would not be returning to her after he had just left the room. This knock was uncertain and timid. "Yes?" She called.

The door opened to reveal Edward. "Madame?" He looked almost frightened as he stood in the doorway. "Th-these are for you." He extended an arm, his hand holding a small pouch.

"Come in." Christine beckoned. Shyly, Edward edged into the room. "What's this?" she asked, taking the pouch from him.

"I wanted to give it to Tempest, my cat used to love these treats." His whisper was almost inaudible.

"Thank you." Christine made an attempt to smile, though it didn't touch her eyes. "You have a cat?" She couldn't help but ask. The poor boy looked terrified and immensely shy.

"Used to. I was born on a farm, ma'am."

"Christine." She corrected him. At nineteen, she was young enough to be his sister; it was strange to hear herself addressed as "ma'am". The formality created a gap between them, as though he was much inferior. It also made her feel unnecessarily old.

"Right," He mumbled abashedly. She found herself feeling fond of him; his shyness reminded her of herself when she was a child.

Christine nodded. "What about your parents? Are they still on the farm?" she asked out of politeness.

"They're dead," he said simply. "They died when I was ten."

"Oh." Christine's eyes widened. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "I sold the farm, I had to."

"How did you end up as a doctor's apprentice, then?" Despite herself, Christine's interest sparked.

"I went to London to seek my fortune," Edward said with a touch of pride. "My sister's married, see. Jane's young and she's real good to me, too. But I detest her husband. 'Sides, she's got five children of her own, and I don't want to be a burden. I met Master Flavio in London, and he took me as his apprentice."

"That's very brave for a boy of ten," she said admiringly, newly gained respect evident in her voice. Once again he shrugged sheepishly. Orphaned at ten, this boy wasn't much different from herself, but unlike her, he had managed to survive and earn his trade without the guidance of an angel. If, at ten, she had not stumbled into Erik's protection, she knew that she would always have been a mediocre ballerina, her talent never discovered and allowed to flourish. She would never have found her courage and strength, never realized her defiance and passion that was so much like Erik's.

"Edward!" Flavio's voice echoed up from the drawing room. The boy's eyes widened.

"I have to go! Master Flavio must want to leave." He dashed to the door, and then looked back with a timid shyness. "Get better soon, Christine; you remind me of my sister." He slipped out of the room, his cheeks burning red.

Erik looked up desperately as Flavio emerged from Christine's room. "She's better, isn't she?" Never before had Flavio seen his friend care so much about another. Never had he looked so torn up over another's pain.  _I was once like that_. Flavio thought with no small measure of scorn, remembering how pathetic and  _weak_  he had been, caring about an undeserving woman.

"Recovering well." He assured the younger man in a clipped, professional tone. Erik's stiff posture sagged in relief. "But there's something both of you need to expect." He met Erik's gaze steadily, expression unreadable. "It is possible Christine may not be able to conceive again."

A light went out in Erik's eyes. His expression of utter despair made Flavio feel a prick of guilt. "Oh," he murmured. "I promised her…" Flavio raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "I promised her we would have children; she wants to be a mother so much."

"It's not impossible for her to have a child." Flavio laid a comforting hand on Erik's shoulder, feeling a little uneasy at his friend's melancholy. "It would, obviously, have complications. But it could happen."

"But it would be dangerous for her."

Flavio nodded gravely. "My condolences, Erik."


	16. The Shattered Shards of Life

**Chapter 16: The Shattered Shards of Life**

_July 1882_

These days Erik sought solitude in his music room. He would go in there for hours at a time, even the whole day. From the adjoining library, Christine would hear music. Melodies of grief and sorrow; of pain and loss. Hidden from Erik's perceptive eyes, she would allow herself to cry silently. She didn't cry in front of Erik anymore, not whens she saw how her sadness hurt him. The painful expression on his face filled her with guilt, and she could not bear to have his grief on top of her own. But she no longer saw him long enough to exchange more than a few brief words. He spent almost all his time in the music room, leaving only when driven by physical needs, which was sporadic at best for a man like Erik.

One night, Christine had gone to sleep listening to a song Erik was playing on the piano. It was written from love, with no undertone of sadness like other pieces he's been playing. It was a simple lullaby, one for rocking a child to sleep. It calmed her, and she fell asleep to its soothing melody.

But when she woke up, the music had stopped. For the first time in days, it had stopped. The door to the music room was closed, as it always was these days. But it was silent. No heartbreaking, passionate aria marked his release of emotion. Driven by curiosity and a tint of worry, Christine knocked; there was no reply. So she entered.

Erik was asleep at the piano. He was lying on the keys, one arm cushioning his head, the other hanging down. His body rose and fell with the steady tempo of his breathing. Some sheets lay on the floor, covered hand-written staves and notes. He must have played and composed to the point of exhaustion, and fell asleep at the piano. Geniuses were not immune to tiredness; a fortnight of continuous creation had been too much even for him.

Asleep, Erik let his guard down. His face was more relaxed, though there was a certain crease in his brow that suggested his slumber was not exactly carefree. His mask was off, stripping down the physical emotionless barrier. His cheek pressed against the keys of the piano, pulling up the corner of his mouth. The youthful and almost innocent look was endearing.

Curious about the songs she heard last night, Christine picked up the fallen papers. The title was two words that made tears well up in her eyes:  _For Gustave_. She flipped through the papers; this particular piece was slow and soft, a lullaby. It was the piece she heard last night.

She picked up some of the sheet music lying on top of the piano. One piece burned with intensity, with its powerful chords that clashed angrily with each other. Another piece of paper had complex notes scrawled hastily over it; Christine could make out a beautiful yet haunting melody, with a complex and equally nostalgic compliment.

Erik spoke behind her, startling her. "These were all written for him." She knew that he was talking about Gustave. Something stirred in her; anger, annoyance, and something else that she couldn't name. She only recognized much later that it was betrayal.

"So this was what you had been doing?" she said coldly, her voice filled with a bitterness she hadn't realized she felt. "Writing music?" She spun around to face him. "Erik, I needed you. And you weren't there." He could not look at her, not with the accusation sharp in her eyes, not when he knew it was him who put it there. She needed him. His presence alone comforted her, reminded her of his support. He knew that. Yet he had deserted her nonetheless.

"I needed to play, to write music," he murmured pathetically. It was no excuse for leaving her to deal with her grief alone. It was only a small part of the truth, but telling her all of it would crush her. "It's the only thing I can do to keep myself from doing what I did… from hurting someone." When he looked up his expression was filled with anguished remorse. "I'm sorry,"  _I wish I could tell you the real reason._

She huffed, exasperated. "This isn't something a simple 'sorry' can solve. Do you know how I felt?" She rubbed her face tiredly. "If you had been there, you could have made it more bearable. Alone, I couldn't hold it in. Alone, I'm exposed to my emotions. Alone, I break down."

Erik stood up quickly, towering over her. "And do you think that I wouldn't be upset? That I have been completely unaffected?" He waved a long arm at the papers scattered around the music room. "You think that I would lock myself in here for days, because I feel  _leisurely_ enough to compose?"

"I don't care why you isolated yourself; I just want a husband that would care for me." She looked up at him, her expression stony. "I guess it's too much to ask you to put me before you."

The words tumbled out of his mouth on their own accord: "We can't have another child."

A dead, still silence hung in the air. So loud that it screamed. So quiet it was heavy. Like the moment a glass dropped. Its smooth surface shimmering in the light. Almost transparent, but not quite visible. Free-fall. Brief but eternal.

"What?" The whispered word shattered the spell of the silence. Like a glass fragmenting into a million pieces. Each shard glittering in the light. Each shard capable of irreparable damage. Each shard deceptively deadly.

Erik closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply through his nose. How could he have been so careless? He had wanted to tell her gently, preferably with a little more tact than dropping it out of nowhere. "Flavio said," he said slowly. Though he managed to keep his voice calm, it was filled with regret. "That it would be dangerous for you to bear a child again."

With a choked gasp, she spun around in a whirl of chocolate curls and white skirts. Without another word, she was out of the music room, leaving Erik staring after her, a world of sorrow and grief written over his face.

He found her sitting on one of the sofas in the library, her arms wrapped around her knees, which were tucked up to her chest. Tempest was on the floor, looking up at her with worried golden eyes.

"Hey," he whispered, coming up to her.

She tensed, but did not turn around to look at him. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

He sighed. "I wanted to do it gently…"

She scoffed. "As if there was any 'gentle' way to do it. Erik, you promised to be honest with me." Even without seeing her face, he could tell that she was deeply hurt by his dishonesty, as much as she was about her barrenness.

"I'm sorry," he said ardently. "I'm sorry I kept the truth from you. I'm sorry I've been avoiding you. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."

"I told you," she said, stubbornly refusing to face him. "An apology is not enough."

"Then what do you want me to do? Grovel at your feet and beg for forgiveness?" He knelt down to level. He gently gripped her chin in his bony fingers and turned her to face him.

"I don't know, Erik," she admitted softly. "Just give me a while." Her hair was swept to one side, the nape of her neck exposed. Her eyes, wide and doe-like, were uncertain. She did not look like the strong-willed young woman she had matured into; she had transformed back into the frightened girl she once was. She looked vulnerable and fragile, and she was his; his to love; his to protect.

"I won't abandon you for a moment longer than I've already done." He looked at her, moving his hands to frame her face. Perhaps it was his sincere dedication warmed her to the heart and melted all traces of her earlier temper. Perhaps she just needed to be held. Whatever the reason, she dropped to the floor, knelt next to him and hugged him. Her head nestled in that familiar hollow between his neck and shoulder; her petite nose brushed his slender throat.

Erik enfolded her small form in his arms. He closed his eyes to savor the feeling of having her warm, soft body against him, letting her sweet scent of roses fill his nose. "I am truly sorry," he said again. "I hope you understand; I was only trying to protect you."

"You're forgiven," she murmured, her lips brushing against his skin as she spoke. She followed this with a tender kiss to the base of his throat. "I know you acted in what you thought was best for me, I just want you to know that you don't have to shelter me. I'm strong enough to handle the truth." A brief smile flickered on her face. "I'm not a little girl any more." As she spoke the words she knew them to be true. She was no longer a meek, frightened child. Any trace of childhood that had been left in her was gone now, subsided with the death of her own child.

"And I want to apologize, too," she continued. "I know that it's been hard for you, as hard as it is for me. I know that composing is how you deal with… what's happened. I wish I were more understanding. It's just that I felt so alone... And you're how I keep my emotions and self-pity at bay." She curled further into his arms and he gladly gave her that shelter, that sanctuary from the slaughter of her own emotions. Neither ever wanted to move, not when each other's arms were a shelter from all the pain and suffering in the world.

Christine's hair was blowing in the wind; her blue-gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. She and Erik were standing in the grounds of the estate, close enough to the house to be within walking distance, yet still isolated, providing privacy. They stood in front of a shallow grave, a small gravestone erected before it.

_Gustave Erik Destler_

_4_ _th_ _March 1882 – 28_ _th_ _June 1882_

_Love never dies, love will continue_

_Love keeps on beating when you're gone_

They had decided to make a grave for Gustave, something to show that he had existed, that he would be remembered, that he was loved. Erik felt a strange jealousy for his unborn son; even before birth, he was showered with the kind of love Erik never experienced. But more potent than the irrational and immature jealousy was his sadness. There had been nights when he played and composed until the wee hours of the morning, when he would finally cry, exhausted by the outpour of emotion.

Erik stepped forward from Christine's side and laid a bundle of papers into the grave. It was the music that he had been writing for the two weeks since the miscarriage. Christine looked at him, wide eyed. "Erik, those are your compositions."

"They are for him," he told her soberly. "It's only right that they are buried in his grave." She nodded in understanding of this gesture. She stepped next to the grave and bent down. The piece of music on top was  _For Gustave_ , the lullaby Erik had composed for their son, back when they could still hope for one.

Christine's hand shook as she laid a red rose on top of the papers. The rose was a symbol of Erik's love for her, and it also represented her acceptance and requital of that love. Gustave was the product of their love, and this rose was the acknowledgement of the fact.

They filled the shallow grave with dirt. Christine's demeanor changed as the couple turned to walk back towards the house. She stood straighter, her steps were more certain, her eyes glowed once again with light and life. Perhaps this is closure – this hope that maybe, you can pick up the shards of your shattered life and continue living.


End file.
